It was new, it was strange but it was what he had expected. There had been scouts long since passed through the land, scouts who had returned with news of bountiful food and packs of the strong. It had been for those reasons that his homeland had sent him forth on his fourth year of life, the pinnacle of his manhood, to take to the lands. Moladion had been what they had called it but to him,
it was Ukjent - the land of the unknown, the undiscovered territories of the South West. They had sent he and a trio of others, three others too weak to make it to the lands with the final having fallen a mere two days journey from the Outer Rim. He doubted they would even make it to the Fólkvangr, though their souls' destination meant little to him - he had performed the customary traditions and he had left. His brothers had fallen but he would not fall in vain; that had been but a day and a half ago. He had arrived when the sun rose highest in the sky and immediately he had traversed into the core of the core of the crater in search of a temporary den. It was found and he had feasted upon white hares and stoats; come his second day, it was time to begin his work.

Through the thickets he moved, each new area noted and taken into consideration before the next; there had been swamps by his den site, a forest far in the distance. It would have almost have passed for his homeland had it not been for those damn swamps - his land was more rugged, alive with ragged, towering stone structures. He enjoyed the landscape and his features remained livid with an adventurous smile; the scouts had been correct. Soon, each nook of the landscape would be chartered and he would be able to move onto the secondary objective of his mission. Even as the night fell on him, the sky moving from blue to mauve, he continued on; it was not long before the world around him silenced and only the pitter patter of paws in the near distance could be heard. For some time he tried to ignore it, frowning to himself but soon enough, the sound stopped - when it stopped is when it became most annoying. Who had it been? He then remembered a proverb given to him; when I was young and walked alone, alone I lost my way. Though he struggled with the prospect of surrendering his task at hand, he knew well that without company, the mind could easily wither and vanish. Besides, the sudden silence could be friend or foe.

With an agitated flick of his broad ears, his body swung in the direction of the previous movement, his limber form moving with surprising ease as he weaved through the thickets. Ahead he could see her, a young girl of white and red - utlending, a foreigner, a colouration not seen within his own kinfolk. His own copper pelt was seldom seen within his people, much less a hue so solid as this girl's. He did not pause to evaluate, his gaze seeking her own as he approached, his body poised as one of both friendliness and suspicion. He stopped then some distance from her, his head remaining lowered over his throat as his broad frame came openly into her view; his tail shifted behind him in a brief display of greeting before his head tilted.

"Hei utlending, hva er dine tegninger?" he queried, motioning to the marks of red along her face and paws, his brows furrowing into a light frown, "Krig?"

(Hello stranger, what are your markings? War?")

He waited for some moments before he realised the stranger did not know his words; he blinked slowly, the frown dissipating from his features as he stared for some moments in silence. He took another slow step forward, head tilting to its opposite axis before his thick, Germanic voice gave a crack at the language of the Moladion wolves. They had attempted to learn as much of it as possible in his homeland but still, there were parts... missing, so to say.

"Your marks," he again motioned to the red hues of her pelt, curiosity alive in the brights of his eyes, "They are?"