It is always a strange things when two righteous wolves compete against one another for a shared goal - a common thing perhaps but never any less strange. Tithe had always come across a wolf with honor and the like, as had Daenerys and so, I find myself curious as to what great chasm had formed in order to break apart their shared goal. In time, I imagine, the world would be allowed a peek into that moment or that reason but for now, I was content to take it upon myself to take a look myself.

I drift across the territory, a building confidence with each step. I have never had the opportunity to really explore the mountain - there is a sense of comfort here, a familiarity in the rocky slopes and sparse reeds; Diveen, perhaps? It merely lacks the red dirt. Still, I continue to seek. For what? I cannot say, or rather, I do not know. There are no pack wolves here, seemingly hushed by the battle that is surely taking place some distance away. Still, any information is good information. What plants does Spirane grow that Glorall does not? What prey lingers here? How can we find a way to benefit from the mountains in ways that they typically might hold back? If I already know the answer... then nobody can keep it from me thereafter.

However, I am not alone. As I overcome a stony ridge, I witness a dark form slip into the shadowy maw of a den. Without their eyes on me, I do not step aside to hide but rather, I sniff wearily at the brisk mountain air. Their scent is simple: feminine yet nothing more. Pine, wood, dirt and mud. Loner. It makes a brow rise and a lip tighten in amusement, an action cut short as the figure begins to re-emerge from the den.

Like she, I am sprung in that moment. I feel my legs instinctively stiffen, my hackles twitching as my head suddenly swings low and defensive. My eyes immediately find hers, fixating as I notice the bundle of plants that swings from her muzzle. I feel my head tilt, my brows furrowing slightly, as I attempt to bring the two together: a loner slinking about beneath the cover of turmoil and...sage. The scent is vaguely familiar, a herb once held by Zeltzin perhaps or dismissed by Hadrian. It matters not. The better question is why.

"That is not your den," I state simply as I take a broad step forward, breaking free from my stasis as my eyes flicker to the darkness behind her. Perhaps I could gain good favor here with the victor - a concerned bystander, a visiting alpha, who found a rampant loner and backed them into a corner, ready for them to pay the price. Yet, why should I? Is there not a greater curiosity in the unknown and unexplained? Who is to say good favor elsewhere is not worth more? Nonetheless, my eyes drift back to hers with a sinister grin, the tips of my teeth revealed against the black of my lips. "And this is not your home."

"Is amisit?" Is she lost? I muse to myself, taking a swinging stride forward once more as my head lolls to its opposite axis with intrigue. I do like these games. I seldom get to play them. I wonder if they are more fun to play on a different field, somebody else's playing field.