The scent on the wind is that of many other wolven creatures. It causes the yellow eyes of Deathspeak to widen slightly, head tilting in curiosity as he begins to weave his way from the depth of tall grasses. He is a large male, broad in all aspects with a savage look about him despite his placid expression; the bite marks on his muzzle make it seem as if he is wild. A feral creature with intentions unpure. It is not altogether untruthful and yet he is made of so much more. The whispers of the dead haunt him but it is those who verge on the tightrope between death and life that call to him. Their souls scream out in hopes that someone will hear their last words, a parting gift to the world.

Thus his name - Deathspeak. On the verge of death there can be epiphanies of various sorts. It was his calling that gave him his name, as was the tradition of his tribe. For the longest time he had been nameless, one among many, and had bloomed late into his own purpose. Fate had a destiny for each of them. That was among one of the many truths he had been taught.

The sight of so many of them gives him pause, his gaze flickering across them in a veiled but assessing manner. They mingle or sit aside and so he stays with the grasses at his back, content to watch them all without interfering. Perhaps he will learn more of this place and these wolves.