The border of Iromar were a sacred thing. Far too many times have wolves run across the border with maleficent intentions. First Kaius, who had been struck down between the combined might of the Empress and her Cerebus, and then Malignus. He had sought to run and been thwarted. Still, his time in Iromar had grown and stretched and he had thus far followed the commandments Aithne had set down for him. It was almost time to set him free, if only because she loathed the sight of him on her soil, his paws ruining everything they touched. She would part with him with warnings and she imagined his face for she would vow to end his miserable life if he committed another criminal act. An interloper like him would no doubt think himself worthy enough to commit more misdeeds. Her fangs fairly ached to rip him to shreds and spit out his blood.

Her mind churns on these thoughts as she absently patrols in a languid fashion, head low between her shoulders. Her tail swishes around her hocks, lifting slightly at the sound of something nearby only to spot a jackrabbit escaping into some brush. Not that she was hungry anyways or she would have taken it and the bush down. A scent of far more interest stings her nares as she crosses the point in which Nex had entered. She freezes for a moment, head snapping around to look for this trespasser, but he is further within. A he and a stranger at that. A growl rises unbidden to her lips, tail rising high and stiff, and she darts off after his trail.

Did these wolves not know her warning? Aithne had left Widow with the warning that trespassing would leave her without limbs to do such - too many had decided her borders meant nothing. Not this time. A ferocity builds within her as she traces his scent, intent burning in her muscles, and as she crests a small rise and whips around a slight bend, she spies him. He walks as if he is the Emperor of Iromar, as if he has some grand design, and her hackles rise. The obsidian fur that runs down the middle of her back rises, framed by the russet that runs from the back of her ears, down either side of her spine to taper at her hips. "The last wolf who dared trespass was forced out and was told she would lose her legs if she returned so the transgression could not happen again. If you wish to keep yours I suggest you turn around and leave. Now." Her voice is gravelly and it is made more harsh by the growl in her voice; she stands in a distinctly dominant and aggressive posture, tail high up, fur flared, and head straight out. There can be no mistake to this stranger who she is. She is the Empress.

Seven - Empress of Iromar - fated for Praetor

aithne