[Basma]

Basma

Basma is only half-Bacchus, and small even so. When not stalking through shadows, one may note he has a habit of finding the high ground, and today is no different. The male winces as he seats himself on a snowy overhang, but grins through it. Nobility must always act as if they are being watched. There are falconers training; he may very well be.

The black wolf tilts his head back and looses a howl to the overcast skies, too clean for their species, so very un-Bacchus. The curiosity of his strange sound will likely draw those young enough not to know him well, but when he's aiming for the attention of elders, well... it probably would have been best to have someone else do it. Basma isn't exactly the sort anyone speaks to unless forced, but he does have a job to perform, and he will excel. Soon, he won't be sitting out in the cold, alone, hoping for ghost stories.

He clears his throat as snow shifts, and wolves gather, head high despite how tempting it is to tuck his chin in what little fur he has. At least his ears are small enough they don't catch the wind. As you may be aware, I have been named Historian of Bacchus, he starts, in place of greeting. It is thereby my duty to collect and record the stories of our predecessors, as to celebrate our heritage and not repeat their mistakes. Mistakes that led them here, to an heir imploring elders, out in the bloody cold. If you have any to share, please do so.

Basma bites his tongue, to stop himself from physically sighing; he's already so disinterested in this. But, if he wants anything better, he'll be the best at what he has. I'm willing to arrange a reward for any valuable information, he adds, hoping that will motivate them.