While Dirge wasn’t there for the structure or even the members of Diveen, he had realized that things seemed to be a bit more stale than prior seasons. With Grimoire lost to the wind and the alpha now settled back into his comfy spot at the top of the pack there was little to unsettle the masses. The changing of leadership in Iromar and Asteraia weren’t a concern of his and as far as he knew they had not intervened with Diveen’s affairs thus far. While he had been content with his laid back position within the ravine pack he was now growing overburdened with ennui.

He paced back and forth within the red-rock grotto tucked into the back of the canyon - a place that his father once held. With all interesting plots now buried deep underground and no sight or sound of any of the mercs Grimoire had recruited, he had little else to do besides his usual duties. And Diveen wasn’t under any particular threat for him to be so cautious. Decidedly, he leaves the grove that guards his corner of the pack and heads out to leave the territory.

He needed to clear his head of the stifling air that hung in Diveen and rid his normally dark pelt of the red dust that had settled within it. He needed to find himself again. So he heads toward the crags, a place he commonly seeks out when having troubles, and enters their realm at the end of midday. Many scents litter the rocky outcropping and he ignores them for the most part as he picks his way up the boulders and toward the place of his birth, but one in particular sticks out to him. It is a fresh scent from and Iromanian wolf, a place of great turmoil he has heard whispers of lately. He was never much for social interactions but the mercenary part of him craved the knowledge of how much things had changed in Iromar and how their infrastructure was affected. The more that he knew the better it could serve him at one point or another.

He followed the feminine odor away from his birthing den and descended the rocks toward a large opening that led into the caverns. Ah, of course the little swamp beast would lurk in the darkness. He pads after her trail silently and picks up on her quiet humming as he draws nearer to her position. She is exceptionally smaller than him and perhaps younger, but his eye was never drawn to pretty little trinkets like herself in any circumstance. ”Swamp-demon,” he addresses her in a graveled baritone voice, willing her to turn and face him so that he may get what he wants from her.