She had finally left the land of her beginnings; the squabbling pack that couldn't tell a rabbit from a bird because their hunger was so great. As was their stubbornness. How many times would she have to snarl at them that they should move on to a more fertile land before they realized the truth? In time they would die out if they stuck in that dying world. The land was nothing if not harsh. Unforgiving. About like Aithne's soul. She remembered only a year past in the frenzy of winter mating when the son of the alpha had decided she was fertile. As if her youthful figure could manage both her own growth spurts and that of children. He was a clever one, she had to give him that, for he had waited until she was unawares before he had her pinned. It was perhaps the most painful of memories in her experience but it also led to the most delicious one. There was nothing like the easing ache of revenge. The snap of his windpipe beneath the power of her broad jaws or the blood that welled up to coat her tongue and drip, drop, drip, drip out of her mouth as she shook him and hovered over his corpse.

They knew then that Aithne was not a gentle soul like the female that had birthed her. The same mother who had wasted away from the harsh winters and dead summers. What a weak female, Aithne thought when she remembered those times as a pup, having to sneak into the horded kills while her mother's bony figure was shuffled to the side. Having to feed her own growing body while the one who was supposed to care for her walked the world between worlds. It was a damned shame.

Shaking away those memories with a twist of her shoulders the vixen stalks through Moladion with her ears pricked and deep emerald eyes attentive. This was a new world unseen to her. Lush. That is the word she was looking for. So much life abounded her that the stench of so much life left a bitter taste in the back of her throat. There was so much here and yet they had insisted on staying? Of course they wouldn't have come with her anyways. The alpha was furious at the death of his son; he did not care what the male had done to her. What did she matter anyways, mutt that she was? But she mattered. She'd make sure she always mattered.

Still it seems as if this world offers too much. Funny, then, how she ends up at the edge of the swamplands where there is so little. The swamps offer nothing but danger although it carves into the heart of a being to make them strong and capable. If one can live off a land of nothing, one can survive a world of everything. For a time she stands frozen and stares in the swamplands; her emerald eyes are a deep, deep shade and around one of her pupils is a red ring. It is the result of a swift kick to the face while attempting to weasel into a meal not her own as a child.

The sun on the murky waters lifts up a rancid stink into the air. It permeates everything and she thinks that after only a minute or so it has stained her glistening black coat. Aithne is not built like a damsel; her body is thick and muscular, especially around her chest and legs, and her head is broad. Her maw is wide - it is not overly so, not enough to make her unattractive, but it is enough to make one think before they assault her. A large white splotch adorns her chest and white traipses across half of her left forepaw. The backs of her ears begin a deep umber red that swirls down her neck and on either side of her spine before tapering out upon her thighs.

Of all the places to stay... should she make this place her home? Yes. The idea of such a land as Moladion, filled as it is with life, meant that the other packs would be bursting at the seams. Perhaps not this place. She wanted her own solitude and others might not seek her out in this nasty piece of land. Throwing her ears back she lifts her head and howls, a deep, long howl before waiting patiently for one to come. No doubt, she thinks, a vile male with his tail in a huff... but she could deal with it should she be left alone.