The spring season has preoccupied him; the beaches were alive with birds, young and old, and so he finds himself there often in search of an easy meal or simple entertainment. He watches, at times, as the young attempt to take off from the cliff's - some, it seems, are not born for this world and so they fall. He watches then as the strange grey fish from below find their own meal, something he has grown eager to watch as their teeth make quick work of feather and flesh. He sees them as wolves of the sea and he wonders, at times, if he will ever be able to taste them. However, he knows to keep his distance. They are swift and lethal, their bodies disappearing beneath the waves to become invisible. A curious thing, really. It seems, he thinks, there is still so much more about the world that he must learn.

Eventually, however, he grows weary in the sun; the sand beneath him bakes and scrapes at his fur, fast becoming an unpleasant part of the routine. It is with that in mind that he parts from the shoreline, following the river from Glorall's eastern coast towards the mainland of Moladion. He wades ankle deep in the water as he does so, quietly moving upstream as he enjoys the sensation of it all. He does not have any true purpose to his actions, after all, and so he moves slowly, only driven to hasten when he reaches the free lands beyond his home's borders. It is there that the new scents and sight begin to interest him, luring him from the water and onto dry land as he jogs onward. Soon enough, he departs from his usual trail, drawn to the southern marshes of Iromar. However, he settles himself in the fields around the river, peering into the marshes beyond with curiosity. He cannot help but wonder if he will ever see what hides in the mists.

Thirst, however, comes first and he finds himself drawn to the slow river. He paces forward on long, quiet steps, his ears pushing up as his eyes settle on an unusual form in the water. It takes him some moments of approaching before the pale form makes itself out to be a wolf - a familiar one at that. He focuses on the red mask of the girl, his tongue lashing out and rolling across his muzzle; an indication of interest, he supposes, but more so a remnant of his memory with her. Kairos. He remembers her name and so, he approaches with self assurance, a natural confidence this time.

He stops by the river's edge, his dark toes teetering on the fine line between water and dirt. He watches her with a tilted head, his red eyes focused on her as they roamed her body. It is an unusual thing to see another so at peace within the water and he cannot help but question her motives. However, he does not speak. Rather, he continues to watch her with innocent curiosity, seldom driven to instigate any other. He is reactionary, it seems, and content to merely drink her in in those moments.