Moving over frozen terrain when one has such giant paws can be quite difficult, especially when that terrain just so happens to be like the slightly warmer climate of your now kingdom. He should have other wolves out here searching for souls to steal, not doing it himself, but alas, they couldn't all leave. Baphomet doesn't like being cooped up in a castle anyway, and besides, it wasn't as if anyone was going to come and storm the gate simply because he stepped out for a bit of fresher air. The brackish tang of Iromar had made itself a part of his pelt, the mud on his now scabbed and scarred paws making him a true marked one of the pack lands. He finds this frozen swamp to be much less, cozy to put a single word to it. Instead he found it much harder to navigate thanks to the frozen short grasses that cracked and snapped under his enormous weight.

               Baphomet is a large male, exceeding most in height, and far outweighing those he had found nestled among the moorland of his newly acquired pack. His red-rimmed ears moved about on the top of his head as he begins to hear the approaching of paws on frozen ground and he reclines onto his haunches, waiting to see the wolf behind the sounds. Black and red stand out in the silvery white of the swampland, and Baphomet is more than willing to wait and see who comes up next. Though truly, as he watches the wolf's movements, he finds himself a bit confused. That is, until he scents the air to find out which gender this wolf is, female then. She was beautiful, for one of the locals this is a rare honor. He does not find very many creatures truly pleasing to the eye, save for his Ishtar, and now the dethroned Ruvindra.

              Her form slowly becomes more clear, and she is nearer to him, but hasn't realized his locale just yet. Clearing his throat with a deep booming sound, Baphomet announces his presence. Don't be frightened, little bird, it is only the devil come to play.