The wrath of Winter assuaged into it a gentle Spring, the only remnant of its passing reflected in the shallow pools of melted snow littered throughout Moladion. Enticing puddles that practically scream “JUMP IN ME!” An invitation Malachi most assuredly indulged, if the streaks and splatters of mud clinging to his legs and stomach were to be believed. Yes, there could be no doubt of the pleasure brought by a cool splash on a pleasant day, but after a while what was once ‘cool’ becomes ‘cold’ and what was ‘soothing’ becomes ‘unpleasantly inundated and goopy’, so Malachi took it upon himself to dry off by exploring the woodland he now calls home. At least, it’s home for now.

Since birth, Malachi has constantly been on the move, ushered on by his dear mother. She had been searching, he realizes now, but at the time it felt as if they would be nomads forever. He is glad that Taviora is what she had been looking for, though. Throughout the course of their travels, this land is by far his favorite. Here, Mother does not urge him to hide away in tall grasses away from the prying eyes of strangers. In fact, he’s met people. Large ones, small ones, even some in-between. It may not seem a big deal to a normal family, but for the longest time it has only been his Mother and him against the world. He cannot complain, the Moon took his sire and his sister for a reason, but it is undeniable that wolves were meant to live in a pack. So, when a soft breeze brings him the scent of someone unfamiliar, he cannot help but be curious.

He crouches into the grass instinctively and stalks forward, silver eyes gleaming with anticipation. Maybe, this stranger will be the same age as him! Chances seem high with the number of pups he’s run into before the blizzards, so much so that his pace accelerates, his footfalls become increasingly reckless until finally one hasty placement snaps a stick in to. “Who’s there?” A chill runs down his spine at the authoritative tone. An adult – a male adult. He shrinks deeper into the grass, his heart pounds against his ribcage. Mother always tells him to avoid unknown males, that they were as liable to eat you as they were to befriend you.

But… can he ever realize his potential if he keeps running away?

Slowly, he rises from his hiding place, puffing himself up will all his might. "I am Malachi," he calls out, and the strength of his own voice spurs him on; he steps out of the grasses, his tail held high, as he continues, "I am a warrior of Taviora, the champion of the Nahuatl, and the Moon’s chosen." While his first claim may be a tad embellished, he is on the path of a warrior, and being that he is one of the last of the Nahuatl with silver eyes blessed by the Moon herself, it is undeniable that Malachi is someone important. Hopefully, this stranger will realize his significance and any thought of having ‘Malachi meat’ for dinner would be deterred. After a couple of deep, calming breaths, he musters the courage to make his own demand: "Now, who are you?"