Ah, he had been correct. A wolf who claimed to deserve Asteraia through blood or birth alone had come; Moladion did not forget and it seemed it never would. Wraith felt...bothered, he supposed, by Arturio having been displaced from Asteraia. It made him wonder why he had remained there even when Grimoire had not come back - now, he wondered, was it time to leave there too? His path had taken him many places before and he did not think his path had come to its end yet. And so it lead him elsewhere, away from the plains and the graves and towards the peaks he had looked up at since his very birth.

He could not return to Iromar, that much he knew and where Taviora tempted him,
he knew it best to continue forward rather than back. So, Spirane had been chosen for now at least - it was strange, really, that he had never even met a wolf of the mountains. What were their leaders like? Their values? Their homes? Curiosity won in the end.

It did not take him long to find his way to the base of the mountain; he moved to the eastern borders, waited some day or two to observe the region before he dared approach the badlands that marked their borders. It had been so long since he had needed to prove himself and he wondered on swaying paws if he had made the right decision - if he had made one at all. Sometimes, instincts felt like choices after all. In any case,
he willed it aside and let out a call for any wolf of Spirane who might be curious enough to inspect him on the borders.

Still, he had made little effort to seem like more than a bedraggled loner; he smelt of Asteraia still, though vaguely at best, and his fur was just as messy as ever. He was unassuming, perhaps even easy to miss, as he cloistered up on the borders among the shade of the spruce.