This land is filled with death, with memories, and with ghosts.

They resonate throughout each step the behemoth takes, the tip of his claws brushing across the grasses as he moves with an innate calm that only one who was assured of their size could have. Few bothered him on his travels excepting perhaps the local predators of a different species. Once a cougar had tracked him for a day but was dissuaded when he turned upon the creature with yellow eyes and a flash of yellow fangs. To take him would have been a hassle not worth the energy so it had left, disappointed, and he had continued his meandering path down south.

It had been a gnawing burring in his ear that had finally pushed him to leave from his tribe, their knowing eyes given in respectful farewells, to pursue a pressure within his chest that was of unknown origin. That was the way of his tribe, anyways. They all served a purpose in life and when called, they were to follow the path. His just happened to lead further than theirs, into a land so far south that the air practically glowed with the ghosts of their dead.

He had skirted a few packs already, intent upon surveying the land before he made himself known, and landed at a river that, once crossed, led into he heart of a moorland. There is a hustle and bustle in Molodian that gives him pause, his eyes tracing the distant rushes of wolves on business he knows nothing about, and for a few days he camps at the river's edge, feasting upon the fattened fish bellies and thirsty prey.

It is where he hears the voices but this time, they are not the feverishly delirious ones of some ghost at the corner of his vision. It comes from a strawberry and mahogany girl many yards out from the river. Whatever purpose she has is lost and her words aren't quite understood but he catches the changes in tone and his ears prick, his eyes scanning either side of her and finding.. no one. So who, then, does she speak to?

It is curiosity, morbid as it is, that drives him from his prone position splayed out along the banks to a stand and a drag to get closer to her. A few feet away he pauses, lest she run away out of fear of him - he is, after all, quite the large beast and the puncture scars on either side of his maw fit that of a wolf, proof of a past. "To whom do you speak?" His deep baritone rumbles from his chest, his head ticked slightly to the left in curiosity while his yellow eyes, each with a diagonal slash of black, peer closely at her.