His fear melted like a snowflake touching a river. Grimoire was pulled in two directions; the first was admiration for his acceptance of danger… the second was disappointment, for fear was such a lovely emotion to behold. She, however, was not the scariest thing in all of Moladion. Dangerous as she could be, Grimoire tip toed around the edge of nightmares. She was her name sake - a vessel for the uncanny or a tool for a wizard. Fortunately, wolves were few with the proper touch to understand and use her powers. So, left to her own devices, she was a spider, spinning a thin web with which to capture flies. Her grin was honey sweet when she received his name. Zharko was a uncommon spelling, of which she was certain was old. Zarko, however, she was familiar with, it being a name closer to her romping grounds. Zar: Ember, zeal, fervor… A worthy name indeed. She wondered, What was his passion?

It was clear by his scars and torn ear that he fought for something. Was it as simple as her passion of hunting that drove him to extremes? Was it deeper… closer to an emotional heart? Her honey smile drifted into an astute smirk when she watched the calculations of his mind through his narrowed eyes. No doubt, the sharpness of his wits was the product of Aranck who had handled her so immaculately - perhaps he’d been one of those few who might of held her binding and stole from her secrets. But… he’d died. She knew because of where his scent had faded. Iromar was no place to sink ones paws in. It was a cursed place and reaped the very souls who live there.

His question was unexpected. He was full of unique characteristics that combined, created a remarkably original wolf. It was no wonder the mists had shrouded him from her. He was worthy of life. Zharko was an ember of motion; mesmerizing, small, and dangerous. With proper care, from a distance, must he be fanned oxygen. Grimoire answered with a coo in her voice the likes of which a song bird graced morning light,

"You are my son.”

True? Completely. She’d briefly adopted him, but she never claimed to be a good mother. After all, he’d been given to her small and she was without milk to feed him. Grimoire assumed death of starvation would severe his existence. She’d been wrong, but it was no new sensation to feel the bite of failure; she was often grievously outwitted by nature.

"And what am I, little ember, to you?”

Grimoire stood, her head level she her back and tilted to one side to regard him with a single, mischievous eye. Her paws left the ground in pendulum gestures while she body pressed closer. Her muzzle realigned with her body while her crown raised an inch so her breath rested close to his ear. What decisions would he make with the openings she presented to him? Her gaze rested on the top of his brow, and she listened to the patter of water from the crags.