Far north, they tell tales of a beast, deep in the snow-laden and dusky woods. It bears the head and wings of a great raven, they say, and the arms of a bear, and the legs and tail of a wolf. It is covered in a great coat of heavy fur coloured like the dark of the thick woods, with eyes gleaming like the snow, like the hazy sky. They say it is the embodiment of the forest, and of all the beasts therein, but most strongly of those that hunt, which it resembles-- that while it is the forest, its trace the smell of wood-smoke and conifers, it is no peaceful creature of some kind glade. Whether in the form of a beast-- or, as it may assume, that of a man, draped in pelts and well-armoured-- it is without a doubt greatest of the hunters in its domain, unmatched in its use of claw or bow. Yet, while it is powerful, it is humble in this regard, and to respect this fact and honor its activities is to garner as much peace as one can with such a creature; where they tell these tales, they venerate the beast.
Eira is a silent sort of creature, as one might expect, and goes about its business without any particular fanfare. Where it encounters other things, they may be hunted, or ignored, or otherwise observed; those beasts to which it appears to be kin may be friend for a time-- or not. They, too, have their own limits, and though it is exempt from some things, and may simply watch and be understood to do so, Eira is still beholden to some sense of rules-- those that most everything adheres to, that unspoken creed (survival of the fittest, in simplest terms,) applies even so the embodiment of the woods. In the same way, those that live in its vicinity and think themselves greater for their awareness are no exception to its tendencies. To wander into the forest and expect different treatment than any other living thing is foolhardy; play the prey and be hunted down. That's simply the way of things.