The only urges she ever felt came from whatever order she was given by either her mother or brother. She supposed one might be able to call her altruistic in that regard for she took whatever they said and held it above all. Such sayings and being might be considered apocryphal yet Natiya knew no better. From the moment she was conceived in the womb the two souls that comforted her were that of Blackthorne and Sarabi. Both were of a harsher variety, Thorne moreso than her mother, but her belief in them was resolute. So when her brother stated that she must stay and guard the den, she would stay and guard the den with an efficiency of effervescence.

Glorall was fecund during the summer, with shoots higher than her small shoulders and flowers that pressed into her nose as she meandered. Nearby one could hear the faint sounds of a rushing river yet it is not nearly the roar that it could have been. Natiya does not yet realize that the glory of the river is muted by the drought of Molodian; she has yet to want for anything so she does not worry. She follows her directions with marked diligence, ears rotating frequently and silver-blue eyes staring calmly around.

From the moment of birth she had been a careful being, filled with a certain sort of solemnity. It came from her air of obediance and understanding of where she fit into the scheme of heirarchy. Below others, the subserviant one. That suited her just fine. But she had been given orders and she must obey them, even if that meant rising above such a thing, and so when the sound of inexperienced trampling alerts her to the arrival of another, she stands.

The only notice of anything remiss is the way her fur seems to slowly stand on end, yet her face remains impassive. Thoughts tumble through her brain - to rebuff him with harsh words, to growl like her brother, to politely dismiss him from the clearing. At once she realizes she is out of her depth. And this is a boy. Instinct makes her stand her ground as he lowers his head and shuffles closer, her ears edging back with each step he takes and yet she doesn't realize she begins to sink down. It does not seem right that she should stand above him. Oh, but what will Thorne do if this boy is here upon his return?

"Could you please leave?" She speaks then, her voice startling soft and incredibly feminine. If Natiya should ever wish to sing, she would be a lark, yet her voice is a refined thing, held seflishly within her.