Six years since she had left to seek broader expanses with Ravan. Six years later, and thus two past her prime, she returns. She comes back to rumors of wars, of those hateful Angels and Demons. She wonders if it will ever make sense, if the plight between the two peoples will ever become as the Dragons had.

Probably not. Not when Dragons were a bloodline with genetic fixed points and the Angels and Demons had so much belief or faith behind it. Dragons were called thus for their nature’s when one was born with the eyes and color of their bloodline. Hers, The Black Dragons, had Bahamut and Weylin in particular. But they also provided awareness for what lay faulty in the title “dragon” to her people. Madness. A hyper awareness of dominance that could drive them insane - and that very few survived (by their own hand or by those who cannot take their tyranny, most died).

It is just as well, then, that the ones in Moladion were dead, she thinks. It is likely for the best - for all that she pitied her nephew and loved what little she recalled of her father.

Moladion was it’s own brand of madness and needed no Dragons born to warp any further. All that was left was to pray she was not a Progenitor like Fenrir had proven to be.

She is at a gallop, full double suspension, as she leaves Mecor and runs onwards south towards the dense treeline that protected the only entry into Glorall. Her home. Her island - oh, she misses her island. She misses the taste of gull and seal fat and the salty air. She misses the crystals of salt growing along her body, washing away when she’d cross with the low tide. The Glorall Fortress. Their island. Home to herbs and the like that the other packs did not have for the simple fact that the island was isolated and seeds could not travel when the birds who lived there did not migrate further than the coast.

Her long paws reach as all four paws leave the ground, her deep chest expanding a large pair of lungs to feed a larger than normal heart in her breast - pounding against her ribs as if it were a rabbit chased by her own maw full of teeth. The wind of spring is warm here, south and only growing more southern as she runs - but alas… when she reaches that border, she stops short, head low and hind end scootching beneath her as her hind legs help her stop. The scent of Weylin was absent. Utterly and completely. The Pirate King would not have let it stand, she knows. He would have to have been dead for another to have marked this place as theirs--- and she would have heard word if the throne had been taken with his death.

She bristles ever so slightly in her distress, in scrambling to feel something she could not hope to when Weylin had been as much an uncle to her as could be borne. Her nephew was older, but that also meant he was stronger… and if something had bested him---

She throws back her long neck, elegant and exotic as it made her look, and let up a howl that was more natural than to give it words. It is that wordless sound wolves make to find companionship, to let others know they are there, to prove their prowess in the strength of voice. It is not a summons, it is not a victory… in fact, it’s notes name her just a little lonely. It’s a song for the Island she so misses, sounding it high and then letting it roll down low like a wavebreaker hitting a cliff face.


The Last Daughter of Mirovis
[ female - eight - no mate - no imprint - wanderer ]