There were a lot of black wolves marked with red in Moladion. Thanks to the angel line, many were scarred with white. Grimoires mother had been racist in assuming any wolf with white fur was a bad influence. The blank color marked purity, which in and of itself was deceiving. Nothing was pure, and thus wolves that bore the color were in their basic nature flawed; they were white lies personified. Grimoire hadn't taken to her mothers prejudice in that sense. But she had come to revere a true Blood Mark. She had yet to see a wolf with the expression to match their coat color. In the wilds, perhaps the pallet had become a defense mechanism to cause her to pause in an assault. Foolish nature; she was more clever that that. The essence of a wolf was written in the eyes, the movement, and the aura. A wholistic observation immediately conveyed the potential of the wolf under scrutiny.

And finally, she’d had a spotting of a female with potential. Not a perfect one, but a nearly convincing one. Her demenor was soft, but her movements exact. Her breath was strong, but never out of her control. Most importantly, the musculacur around her orange irises was young, but not naive. She was not withered with age or skeptical with ideals. She was fresh, but no stranger to survival. Grimoire’s tail waved gently by her ankles while her muzzle became tense with a bewitching grin.

Secondly, was the manner of analyzing her fur and physical build. The matte black was an average color, also an excellent one; it soaked up the light, and refused to glint in the moonlight. It was a hunter’s blessing. The Blood Mark was interesting to read. Upon her face and head, would suggest intelligence and tracking. The wings upon her shoulders usually indicated strength. The flare of red at the start of the tail was the sign an efficient messenger. Her physical body was lithe, but toned. So, what was the over all effect of this red and black female? Grimoire thought she looked rather vulture like. Sharp, dangerous, and with a slightly mystic purpose between death and life. She was not the breathtaking visage of an eagle, but she was eye catching in more memorable way - hauntingly graceful.

Grimoire could soak in the cold detatchment and mezmorizing elegancy of the female for hours. And she would. But it would be in the course of engagement, not wolf watching. Grimoire moved from the brush like a dancing cobra. With her head at its pinnacle, she weaved around the brush so as not to disturb a single leaf. Her paws mimicked the lightness that she’d seen her quarry utilize. Her white canines gleamed in contrast to her ebon lips when she chimed,

”I gotta hunch about you and I, Red. Humour me to find out if it's right?”