In the time before banners, before the House bore a name, the winds spoke in riddles, and the bloodlines ran wild beneath the moon.
From that frostbitten silence rose the First Pack — not chosen, not bred — but summoned. Each one a spirit cloaked in flesh, echoing traits too primal to chart, too sacred to forget.
Spike, the Iron Fang — chaos in form, war in stride. He was the storm’s front, the will that would not bend. Through thickets and threat he charged, part guardian, part berserker. Not even the beasts of steel and fire could sway him. He bowed to none but the one he called kin.
Lady, the Light-Step — dusk-footed and knowing. She danced where others fought, laughed where others growled. Her joy masked wisdom, and her silence bore witness to storms few could calm.
Together, they were tension incarnate — drawn close by instinct, yet pulled apart by fire. When famine came, it did not break them — it awakened their feral roots. Marked by mischief, wild hunger, and blue-stained rebellion, they became more than dogs. They became the first signs.
Then came Fluffy, the Broken Flame — plucked from darkness, his light flickered with trust regained. He healed, he bonded, he loved. But spirits scorched too deeply often burn twice — and madness returned to claim him. His end came at the riverbank, and with it, the first sorrow engraved upon the soul of the House.
Time turned. And then — white as snow, and just as pure — arrived the Pale Sentinel: Snow.
Fierce in love, divine in duty. He warded the weak, defended without question, bled for the safety of those entrusted to him. From venom to fang, he stood between death and his kin. When death finally claimed him, it did so only in form. His spirit did not pass — it rooted.
From his line, others bloomed. Through storm, through shadow.
And from the shadow’s brood emerged Frosty, the Blue-Eyed Dame. Tethered from birth not just to blood, but to the soul of her chosen. She grew not beside the House, but within it. Protector. Healer. Matron of warmth.
These were not mere companions. They were omens. They were echoes.
And though their pawprints fade, their presence lingers. They walk still — not in form, but in howl, in instinct, in the fire behind every gaze that bears the Æthelwolf name.
Their bones may lie silent.
But their spirit? It runs forever.