It was not often that Sleekwing strayed from the boundaries of the mountain. He was a man bound by duty and honor, and he rarely drifted from the tasks bestowed upon him by his sister Queen. Despite the calm that had settled within the population of Spirane, he was always on the lookout for potential threats to the pack. As of late, however, he’d felt a desire to roam the rest of Moladion. If no threats lingered at their borders, the potential that threats might raise within the free lands increased. His constant presence on the mountain did not create a sense of confinement. No, Sleekwing had always and would forever be content with spending all his days upon the mountain. Perhaps it was the feeling of total loss when the sky had fallen, and the immeasurable joy when they had finally been able to return, that instilled his feeling of binding to the peaks that were his home.

But today was a day for roaming, for ears to flit back and forth and listen to the whispers of others. He was no spider, as Daenerys wished for Natu to become for the pack, but he would do his best to detect any threats that lay west of the valley, in the mountain’s shadow. He left a steady trail of paw prints in his wake, large and perfect in shape, for his step never faltered as he moved across the foothills and plains that lay before him. It was only as he travelled past the crags that he knew so well that his stride shortened and he slowed. His tail swept out behind him, his ears pricking at the sound of water echoing off stone. It was strange to think that in the coldest months of winter the trickling water from the crags had not entirely frozen over, as it always had in the past.

With curiosity guiding his steps, he moved towards one of many entrances to the system of caves known as the grotto. He had never explored the caves before, only another indication of how frequently he roamed away from Spirane. Sniffing at the air, he detected many scents. Some were stale, and others more fresh. So this place was clearly frequented by the rogue wolves of Moladion. He arched a brown, continuing from the archway in the rocks along the outer edge of the grotto, choosing to not yet enter the dark caves. A wolf of the mountain, he understood rock formations quite well, but something about this place made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The structure just didn’t feel safe.

As he moved along, his nose was suddenly assaulted with a strong, fresh scent. A wolf had been at the next entry to the caves he came upon only moments before him. The heather painted wolf could not help but be curious about the type of wolf that would choose to reside in such an unsteady dwelling, and so he moved into the darkness of the caverns. His lithe body moved upon large paws, drawing deeper into the caves, following the scent of the wolf that he had just missed. Dark blue eyes, ringed in pale lavender, slowly adjust to the darkness, and he is glad that he had moved slowly into the grotto. The scent of the foreign wolf is strong here, and not fifteen feet in front of him the wolf feasts. With dilated pupils, he takes in the scene before him, noting the disheveled nest in the corner. Clearly this wolf lives here, although it does not look all that comfortable a dwelling. The gray male contemplated remaining silent, not wishing to startle the wolf who’s abode he had infringed upon. But he doubted his presence would go unnoticed, and Sleekwing hardly wanted it to be that way anyways. “Greetings,” he said, simply, waiting to see if his arrival would be met with a hostile or welcoming response.