He wanders far from the free lands of Moladion with no purpose. What purpose did he have left? He had met with a relative of sorts, he believes, named Sabriel and yet there is so much of himself and his past that he does not know. Perhaps no one knows of it. His paws take him toward the southern region of the realm and he feels an overwhelming sense of familiarity at his surroundings as it soon becomes hotter, more humid, and the trees slowly shift from regular forest foliage to more of a swampier, Cyprus type. Multifaceted eyes fall upon each and every inch of this moorland as he walks deeper into it. It all feels so familiar and yet there is not a single place that looks as if he had been here before.

It puzzles him to no end until the heady scent of an alpha’s marking reaches his nostrils. They flare as he inhales the scent and a tinge of realization comes to him. Maybe he had lived within this pack in his younger years. He does not recall very much from his youth and yet this could be a possibility, something that he could find out from the wolves here if he were to poke around. He lingers upon the border and turns to jog beside it as he searches for any living being that he may come across, unwilling to cross the intangible barrier for fear of being set upon ferociously. He knows of the pack traditions when it comes to trespassers and has seen such events unfold in the world away from Moladion.

He does not wish such a happening upon himself for any reason. He nearly shudders at the memory of such a thing. And so he will continue to move along the line of Iromar as he waits to be found out by someone, anyone really, so that he may gain entry.