Far more often is the dark chocolate child with maroon markings away from the den than she is near or in it. She is not yet even a year old, her first Winter just about to begin and she much prefers the company of the dark night sky. Deep within the marshes, it is quite possible to keep both warm and dry if one knew where to look. It did not matter that Winter would come to Moladion; it's deepest tendrils did not pierce the heart of the bog no matter the seasons ferocity. Her Mother, Vera, had spent meany years in this land as had her Father, Yojimbo. Albeit mostly in separate parts of it, but it had been here all the same. Traveling the North East side of the main river that feeds the marshlands, the small still growing girl is near to where a call for Aithne goes up. Only once has she met the Empress of the moors, and even then she had been but a newborn at her Mother's belly, hardly with the will to speak for her own. Now, though, she was growing fast and swift, though it would be some years yet before she was close to a wolf full grown.

The one who had called, his voice still rang of youth while his scent upon the breeze could belong to nothing but a pack land. One that was particularly arid and dry, especially just before the Winter months, and words of her Father are coming to mind. Diveen is the city of angels, made up of a series of rocky plateaus, canyons and ravines. She is most curious of this other, but as it were she had the option to approach and not and she chose not. Aithne was most attentive to her wolves as well as her borders, even those that remained reclusive and within the shadows. Little Najira is by passing them and continuing her trek of following the river until it is leading out to a bend a bit beyond the territory before curving back in. From an early age she had followed this river out of the swamps and the bogs and into the land that is Moladion, but on this late Autumn day she does not find herself crossing the territory line. Instead, she remains near the river where the ground gradually goes from soft and wet mud and grass to coarse grass and then gravel.

If one followed a certain few dozen trails they would find themselves at a series of ravines and then caves, known as the Grotto to any native born to the land. Ice blue eyes look down that same trail, wondering how many might have come that way once upon a time or how many have gone. The Demons that are half her heritage, from her Mother's side, were said to once have been all that Iromar was built upon. But now, Vera was one of the last remaining few, and even those numbers were still dropping. It was only a matter of time until there were none left, and Najira found herself thinking perhaps on how long it would be until there weren't any wolves left. For all things had endings just as they had beginnings, a lesson of her Fathers among the many she never did and would never forget. While it was true she was seldom home and with both her parents, occasionally she sought them out individually for lessons from each. They both had their own ideas and their own ways, even if they were bound by fate in soul and perhaps even heart.