Monarchs Glen

The wind caressed the grasslands, giving it the illusion of being a massive sea of green, the hills the rolling waves. Faint smoke dotted the horizon in various places, the locations of the camps of the nomadic armies and peoples of the Wolves, a mix of various races that had made the area their home. For various reasons they had come here, to escape the prosecution of being followers of Barnabas or being forced out of house and home by sword point. Most, if not all, had been welcomed into the growing alliance of the Wolves, led by the seemingly immortal Calen. Some had been too ruthless and had been forced to the perimeter of the plains while others had taken their followers and moved elsewheres.

In all the history of the Silver Wolves' occupation of the plains, there had been no static location where to find them. The tribes roamed continuosly, always one step ahead of random armies that would take the route through the grasslands rather then going around. But now, that was all changing.

Calen brushed against a thin tree that clung to its existence of the side of a small hill, his fingers touching its bark almost lovingly. There was a massive shortage of lumber and rock in the grasslands and that was one of the main reasons why he and his people had never constructed anything here.

Golden eyes scanned the lands around him. He had put out a call to the leaders of the various tribes and peoples. They would need labor and protection, mostly protection, if they were going to leave the grasslands to harvest the resources they needed. He had brought a few hundred laborers and more then double that in soldiers. If the rest of the tribes brought even half, they would be able to harvest from the mountains and forests at the same time, cutting down the time they would be required to be away from the protection of the plains.

He hadn't left the grasslands for some time, not since he had accepted the bone chalice and drunk from it. How would his other side react to leaving? Only one way to find out.

A hand stirred him from a deep sleep and only the scent of the man protected him from getting a dagger in the throat. His nose told him it was one of his soldiers, smelling thick of steel, sweat, and for some odd reason, tomatoes. Perhaps he would have to look into this man's diet. Opening one eye, he stared at the man and frowned.

"What is it?"

"Sir, it's been a month. The men are growing restless and are talking about returning home," the soldier replied quickly, snapping to attention. A small wave of fear passed through the scent but was quickly swallowed by a wave of loyalty. This soldier may be afraid to tell the hearts of the men but knew that it would be handled appropriately.

For Calen, however, he was filled with disappointment. It had been almost two months since the call had gone out for the tribes of the Wolves to unite to help construct a permanent home. Two weeks preparation, two weeks of travel, and then a month of waiting. He had put his men through maneuvers to keep their fighting edge and had the engineers begin to draw up plans, hundreds of plans, of the possible construction. So far he had kept his amusement. The new plans ranged from a palace suitable for a dainty princess to a monstrous fortress that could withhold almost anything thrown against it. But now was the time to begin to move, with the others or without.

"Sound the horns and strike camp. I want us to be ready to move by noon and into the forests no later then dark tomorrow."