There’s something that ought to be said about things like bloodlines. The older they were, the more likely that there was either inbreeding or infighting. The right to carry on said bloodline was a weight most did not have the time to keep up with and it is a wonder that there were so many in Moladion already. Angels, Demons, but what Wivern was concerned about was Dragons. Hers. Her bloodline that had been most aided by the procreation between Bahamut and a woman she had heard was the missing part of his ‘soul’. The notion sits as silly in her mind, but she will not argue. She had also known of his time in Nanrua and that is also why she did not make herself known to him when she had watched. He had gone deep into the Dragon’s mind and it did not suit her to appear before him when all that would accomplish was pitting her weaker alpha drive against his for no reason.

               Dragons do not often get along, you see. Blood or not, it was not unusual for one Dragon to kill the others who remained within the same pack if they were not careful to retain a certain extreme caution. She had been careful, she had become the silent – sleeping Dragon. A Dragon of riddles and treasure hoarding. She sleeps, dormant, because hers is a weaker breed and she cannot afford to compete with the boy who had been born of Savages and Dragons both. She will never go to Glorall – will even keep enough to herself to hide herself from the Pirate King, silly notion that he believed himself a Pirate more than a Dragon.

               There was just a little bit of discomfort as she trails the scent of someone who smelled like kin, a female with small paws that was light enough that the dirt barely held the depression of paw prints. She casts about, nose keen for her talents. Her brother, this place knew him as Bahamut, was a man of great charisma and tenacity. Her nephew, this place knew him as Weylin, was a boy of savagery and strong emotion. She, known to herself and her kin only as Wivern, was a woman of few words, of sharp mind, and of a singular talent of tracking. Prey, predator, wolf, kin, enemy – the things her nose told her had kept her more than just alive. It had given her a purpose.

               She follows the scent to two strange looking clefts in the rock and determines that there is a little bit more to this place – that the caves are unsafe despite what she might believe of her abilities. She does not trust this place, not after having learned of two equally as old bloodlines having already established themselves. The Dragons were negligible for now and she is glad there has been no upsets to remove them entirely. Bahamut’s rumored death was hard enough to stomach when it was clear that her bloodline’s history had a poor time of continuing the Dragon line in itself. Dragonborn were only every other generation and only – at max – one pup a litter. And the horror to exacerbate this problem? Only one child of a Dragonborn would be a carrier of the Dragon bloodline in a litter. The Black Dragon – for this is the name of the bloodline which came long before Bahamut established it as a title in moladion – line was the most virulent of lines and had even been known to sometimes throw two Dragons per litter.

               She notices where the scent leads, heading towards the sea, and so she stops her tracking. Her eyes lose their glaze, lose the deadpan expression that allowed all her attentions to be placed in the tracking of her target. Usually she waited for Titan to do such things, to lose herself in a scent, but this time she made an exception. Titan was likely already on his way to where she would not – could not without a potential fight to the death – battle. She lifts her head when she catches another scent she ought to have noticed if she had not been so keen on following the scent of a Dragon child, born or simple child she did not yet know and would not know without seeing the light females litters.

               Her head whips about to where she sees a shadow. Her ears flick, drawing hard forward and then to the side as she lowers her head, feels the stop of her brow crinkle and the bridge of her nose follow not long after. A rumble begins, but it is at the back of her throat. Her tail is not high, but not low – not nearly as mindlessly dominant as those others of her blood. She snorts mid-growl, eyes keen in a particular direction, simply waiting for the lurker to show himself. Him. Yes, it was him and he smelled of mire and fog and moor and salty death.