The young man of black and russet often grew bored with Iromar. Not with the pack itself, no. There were plenty of others to keep him occupied for the most part if he so chose. It was simply that he found the landscape lacking. Though he easily navigated the unstable ground, the amount of trees did not allow him to sprint as freely as he would like. He was therefore forced to practically tiptoe about and easily became restless. To relieve this antsy feeling, he often traveled to the crater to stretch his limbs.

Zaqar’s two favorite haunts were the fields and the crags. The former allowed him to reach his fullest speed while the latter allowed him to tone his muscles through climbing about the boulders. Over the summer, through his time spent there in the heat, he had turned the last of his loose baby skin into hard muscle. As he was fonder of running, his body was perhaps a bit leaner than that of his father had been, but he still carried a significant amount of weight and was formidable.

On this particular day he had decided that he wanted the challenge of weaving through the boulders. Perhaps he would take advantage of what would likely be the last warm day of autumn and wade through the waterfall pools afterward in search of some fish that were not covered in Iromar’s slime.

He was about to crest a particularly steep slope when voices off to his left caught his attention. After just a moment’s consideration he changed course. Peering through a gap in the rocks, he watched the small gathering with interest. Every once in awhile the wolves of Moladion seemed to do such things. He had witnessed gatherings like this before, and they always seemed to involve a few pair imprinting. Curiosity was about to get the better of him, but for the moment he kept himself hidden, save for the sliver of black surrounding his violet eye as it continued to watch the others.