She does not know where this place is, but having come down from the north, she sought out a climate that most suited her. The plains were too blustery. The woods too dark. The Mountains too much in turmoil. The moors and swamp too mired and foggy. The desert plateau too hot. Nothing had caught her attention in any manner that was favorable to a permanent stay.

Did she give them all the due attention that might have changed her mind? Not really, but she did like the look of Glorall, of the salty scent wafting up over even the freshwater waterfalls. The sea imbued this place with a wildness she enjoyed and the island she saw at a distance was beautifully populated with plants and what looked to be small animals.

She walks, therefore, straight to the first scent marker and then walks just far enough for it not to offend her nose or the sensibility of whatever creature controlled the territory here. Her sky blue and morning sunshine eyes are more soft and beautiful than what someone who knew her would know of her nature. For all those who would look on her, she would depict a lovely, albeit passive, female with soft appearance to her form walking towards and then along the shoreline. She was patient, she was soothed and calm, she was quiet and serene.

Those who were sensitive, however, would know that there was something not at all soft, kind, or tender lurking like a dagger behind the sweet cotton candy blue and the cheerful sunshine yellow. Those who could feel it would understand that while she was the very picture of grace and delicacy, something was entirely the opposite.

And in Moladion, there were a good many who would claim to be sensitive, that could feel what was not obvious to eye, nose, ear, or touch. Intuition, some said. Instinct, others argued. What mattered, however, was that she was not taken lightly despite having no excuse to shrug the shawl of the creature that had seemingly been dreamt up in her mother’s womb. Swan, what she was named for and otherwise colored as. Colored of two swans, in fact. Trumpet and Mute - contrary concepts when taken out of context of man naming creatures in some oddball manner.

When at last she is truly found, meandering, her eyes catch sight before her head ever turns. She does not stand, does not bow. She is wolf. She is a free woman and owes no dotage on another, neither alpha nor omega would stir her in this moment. No amount of intimidation tactics or appeals could raise or lower that plumed tail. Instead, she looks for intelligence in the eyes of the one that comes to see what stranger had come to the border.

“I am Svana. What name has this place been given?” She speaks, but her inflection is subtle and idle curiosity, a soft expression thickening on her features as she lets a brow raise ever so slightly to express intrigue in her visitor.

She does not know that he is the alpha, that he is in his rights to damage her. She would not think to care. A strong alpha was a strong alpha, even if feeling it in her flesh was the price of prompt answers to her questions.