Interrupting the rest of the night creatures was perhaps not a clever idea yet Aithne did not particularly care. She was built like a tank with a broad chest, thick limbs, and a wide maw. If any creatures dared challenge her they would be hard pressed to move her and even more so to do it without considerable damage to themselves. So she bathes in the pale moonlight on that small hillock in the winter snow. The world is dim, the bright white of the snow the only thing to give definition to landscape, and the wind picks up into it's own screaming howl before dying down once more so that the snow can settle and the world can become gentle and calm once more. Hunting at night in winter would be a difficult task and as such she does not consider that a wolf may do so - after all, there is perfectly good game in the packs that is much easier to attain than trying to live by oneself. Aithne was always about survival and always about the more pragmatic of solutions so it was no wonder she had found a pack shortly after arriving in Molodian, one that had fit her perfectly with its smaller numbers and harder living.

There is no audible answer to her call but still she rests with her dark eyes wandering across the landscape and puffs of steam billowing around her head. The stars twinkle coldly in the spaces where the clouds break but they are quickly hidden once more for winter was not willing to lessen her grip upon Molodian, not even for an Empress alone. So many had come and gone from the marshland but Aithne did not forget a face or a scent. It was one of her skills, among many, that had gotten her to where she was in life, but perhaps it was her drive that had succeeded in gaining her the throne. Andras had felt her worthy and she had set out to prove to him that she was. She had bonded a pack that was aloof. She had killed a trespasser for his crimes. She had forged alliances where none had been before. She had, finally, killed that hatred that had festered in the swamps.

It helped, though, that those who had been the forefathers of such hatred had did. Andras and Heyel were gone and with it, much of the strife between the packs. She had moved Iromar in a better direction and she had made it law that her wolves were not to break such a peace lest they forfeit their life to her jaws. Aithne may not be a gentle ruler but she ruled nonetheless.

Movement catches her attention and she watches the dark figure race towards her. She remains seated, her thick body tensing beneath her fur and coiling for movement should it be needed. As Zaqar draws closer so do his snarls and her own lips tremble upwards in a show of fangs, eyes hardening as they look down on him, daring him to attack her. Daring him to try and move her mountain of a body; taller he may be, but she is thicker. But he stands down suddenly, a look of uncertainty and a wavering voice meeting her steadfast look and her nostrils flare in the bitter cold to catch his scent. It is different, mixed with the freshness of travel and snow, but she recognizes it and she recognizes him finally.

They had only met once and he hadn't been quite thrilled then either, if she recalled, but he had been a wolf of Iromar. "I know you too, Zaqar." Her coarse voice rasps into the air, watching him with a kind of enigmatic expression. "I did not know you have returned. Why have you not come back to the swamps?" There is curiosity in her voice, wondering if she had simply missed him there or if he had decided it wasn't for him.

Six - Empress of Iromar - fated for Praetor

aithne