He had never been born with his father's bravado. He had his mother's quietness, an unearthly kind that seemed heavy as he patiently watched those around him. He had never been born with a short fuse, a temper, or even the inkling of unsolicited violence - at least, he had grown from it. As a child, one might have assumed he would grow to fill the paws of his mother and yet, her untimely absence had forced him to adapt. He could not satiate his curiosity by being too aloof, too withdrawn or by having a short fuse such as his grandmother. No, he had become a gentler creature, an ominous one perhaps but gentle nonetheless. Maybe that was why he had approached the stranger in such a way - curious, never angry; attentive, never territorial.

He is not even bothered when his interest in her goes unrequited. Instead, her shrug and her apparent passiveness lured him forward a step, his head low and tail swinging slow behind him as if caught in a breeze. He had found something much more interesting than rocks and stale reminders of his father's rulership; no, he had found opportunity. She smelt of elsewhere - multiple elsewheres at that. That in itself made her interesting so imagine the hunger that knotted in his gut when she spoke.

"Iromar," he stated simply, tasting the word with a flick of his tongue and a stout nod of his head. Only one place in Moladion could be described as swelling worst than Glorall - many, after all, found the saltiness and tackiness of the shore's air to be too much. Yet, even more seemed to abhore the dankness of the swamps. As for him? He had liked Iromar. He had drifted in and then out but he had liked it.

He had looked aside momentarily when she had mentioned his eyes and he jarred to a stop then, his head suddenly tilted to the left as he stared into the brightness of her own eyes. "Do you like them too?" He offered the question in the same manner in which he had offered the question of the sea's likability - off handed, weightless like the breeze. He noted her ears then with a flick of his own - ringed in colour. "I like your ears. We are the same." Then, she was quick to throw more words at him.

He paused then, unsure how to answer. He mulled over the question for the moment before he sat abruptly with a twitch of his lip, an amused grin to himself. "I'm the son of somebody," he shrugged, "as for what I am, I am just another wolf." She would have to ask better questions, he thought. "What is your name?" He emphasised the question with a mischevious grin: he had asked the right question, no? Who and what was all subjective but a name? If she didn't want to play games, she should have said such.