It was dark, black as a raven's wing, even with the moon. The celestial orb was obscured by clouds, making it's light dim, even as it was at it's zenith. Somehow, it still managed to silhouette the trees, making them darker shapes against a navy blue sky. The ground itself was dark, however, all light blocked out by the deep, silent forest that it was over-shadowed by. Twisted and gnarled roots where strewn about on the indistinct pathway, making it seem impossible for any beast to tread without tripping, or at least making some indication of their presence. But of all things their must be an exception, and the exception to this rule would be the slight form now treading down this very pathway, her onyx pelt making her impossible to decipher from the blackness of the wood at midnight. The keen eyes of the wolf could see the roots well enough, and her perceiving gaze seemed to rid the forest of it's secrets. She was clad in tones of ebony, with not a marking save a small, white swirl in the middle of her chest. Her fur was short, but she was well insulated, so it gave her some warmth against the chill air that had descended on the pines after the sun's dispersal.

The black maiden was once called Zafrina, and it is by that title she still refers to herself, in the depths of her consciousness. No one had spoken to her by name in quite a while, as she did not share it with strangers without care. In her mind, her name was the one thing that was hers, and only hers, so she would not have it be given heedlessly to anyone, not even those she had begun to trust. She was always careful, and that is how she proceeds now: carefully. Her ebon paws are placed with consideration,for the reason she does not wish to make any noise. It is rather stealthily that she treads, over the earth, sometimes pausing altogether to scent the wind, taking care to fully digest the results before moving on. She is not frightened, but nervous, and in desperate need for a duty. For that is what she is: a creature in need of some reason for her puny existence, a reason other than beauty, which she has, but it is not like her to flaunt herself. More than once she has wished to be a simple, shaggy gray velca, one who is passed over by those looking for a gorgeous female to rape, and one who is valued for skills, and a bright mind. However, she is no longer a warrior able to fight and hunt with the greatest persistent. She is flawed, an injured vessel. When she leaps, the muscles in her left hind contract in a spasm of pure pain. It was not her fault, and she was not born with such a burden. It was the fault of the male, the large brutus who thought to force himself upon her, and became angered when she refused him. They fought, and when the battle was over, she was injured, and he dead. However, her limb has not healed. Yet she endures. Even those who see her carry out a battle or hunt would not know of her issue, as she counts it a matter of pride not to show it.

She broke into a jog, traveling more swiftly over the rutted terrain, her steps certain now. Zafrina's long limbs carry her bodice quickly, so in not much time she had made it to where the scent of pack lands she had been following grew stronger, more tangible, it was obvious she was getting close. As she approached the border, her speed slowed considerable, and she began to walk, putting one velvet paw in front of the other, a neutral expression on her face. Her crown touched the ground, and she drew in air with her sooty nose, taking in two scents, an alpha female's and an alpha male's, both strong. Taking several steps back from the scent line, she sat. Her dark eyes warily scanned the forest, roving warily. She was slightly tensed, but she still held herself with dignity- she would not let herself look like a sniveling pup on their borders.