The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.
The season of fall means that he fits in with the colors that the leaves have turned, that he is virtually made for this environment, second only to the deserts of his homeland. He settles into a mile-eating trot indicative of wolvenkin and keeps his head low to avoid rustling low hanging limbs as he weaves in and out of the tight knit foliage. His blue eyes are in striking contrast because of this, like a peek of sky through a withering fall canopy.
He scans ahead of him in a practiced manner that betrays him as an interloper, as a newcomer. He has traveled too much, seen too much, knows too much about wild-living to be from these parts. Moladion was so very, very small - for all that the Kingblade had apparently settled here for a time. Or, well, at least that was the rumor beyond this place’s borders-- borders beyond petty pack claims.
Atum is a handsome fellow, despite being past the initial years of intense youth and the usual appeal of young love potential. He makes an impression as he finally arrives in one of many clearings worthy of investigating. He casts about for scents, but finds none that are recent save for a couple great scents of beasts he had happened upon in other lands in other worlds.
He shakes when he finally stills himself, ears always listening for intrusion, always aware far out from his person. "Ou nofri pe...""Alright..." He murmurs to himself, adding a decisive huff meant to reassure himself of his own choice. "Tna`ohi `mnai atooyi.""I shall stay here until morning."
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