He does not stop his travels when first he comes upon these new lands. His near silent pad fall continues the trek he has set for himself. There is no ryhme of reason to his progression across the lands. He stops here and there to leave his scent mark or scratch at a patch of dirt where another has left a mark. He is a loner by spirit and history and as such the courtesy to refrain from such menial behavior is beyond him.

Over mountain and valley he travels, a mere dark shadow upon the lands where sunlight gleamed. Startling yellow gold eyes drift here and there as his fine muzzle lifts to catch the thinning breeze. Occasionally he stops, feeding upon rabbit or mouse that has the unfortunate fate to traverse down the same path as his own. There is no purpose in his travels, save for the purpose that has set itself in his mindset. None suit him, not enough for him to call the lands his own... that is, until he comes upon the skeletal trees and tall brushtail grasses of the mashlands.

It is here he stops, his large mass standing imobile upon the hard ground that held back the dark swamp waters from ingressing any further into the forests. A single black dial flickers as he lifts his whiskered maw towards the blowing breeze, sifting through the various scents that it brought with it. Many are familiar, water oak, horsetail, and even river bullrush all grow in plenty here and their scents ring strong in his nostrils... but there are others... the scent of wolves that hold their own unfamiliarity to his keen senses. A single audit flickers now as the sounds of their nearby yips and snarls ring in his ears and instinctively ivory fangs flash beneath the dying light of the sun. Thickly furred hackles rise like black spikes along the scruff of his neck and the length of his spine, settling into the bottlebrush of his obsidian tail. He does not growl, or add the own snarl of his baritone voice to the distant numbers but instead lets the fierceness of his yellow eyes settle on what lay beyond the shelter of the thick marsh grasses.

For a moment he remains immobile, a statue of darkness in the rising shadows of night. For a moment he does not move... but it is only a mere moment. Regal head is raised proudly but not so high that the alpha of the lands might take immdiate offense and set the pack loose upon him to defend title and homelands. A voiceless snarl etches itself upon his lips as the midnight dragga takes a step forward, his bulky mass sinking into the nutrient rich mud of the black marsh waters. Effortlessly he glides through the waters, allowing the padding between his claws to aide in his navigation through the murky waters.

He rises on a far bank now, drawing himself from the water's edge to stand dripping on the sandy refuge. A single dial flickers now as he raises his own muzzle to the sky and releases a call of summons. Alerting the alpha to his presence, though no doubt he was already aware... any good alpha would be, and inviting him forward to meet the loner for Navarre had every intention of remaining in the marshlands of Iromar.... at least for the time being anyway…