Ironclads cut through the choppy seas like steak knives. Surf stubbornly hammers their metallic bows ineffective in altering the will of the great machines. Above the three ships, three parallel streaks of soot stain the otherwise clear blue skies. Seagulls, normally inquisitive birds, steer clear of the ferrous fortresses preferring to perch on adjacent rafts of seaweed instead. A local pod of orca share their caution, venting their blowholes from a safe distance.

The flag of the Wolf Nation, the blood paw banner, flaps alongside each ship's smoke stack. The black paw, centerpiece of the symbol, is just barely visible amidst the smog. Flying the highest standard and boasting a barrage of guns, twenty-eight in total, along her broadsides, the Seafang leads the formation. Her captain, an alpha female with fur as gray as her ship's iron sides, stands at the conning tower. One eye scans the horizon through a crystal scope while the other remains forever closed beneath a grizzly scar.

"Anything, Captain Jaina?" her first mate and pack beta asks squinting at the distant spouts.

"Just leviathons...," replies the captain, "but there's a new smell on the air." Her nose wrinkled at the unknown odor. "Signal the Moonsquall and the Stormeagle to tighten their formation... and tell the crew to ready the canons just in case."