Lion Head Mesa thirty-seventh

His eyes remained sharp upon the man who lounged before them, as if a cat that quietly lapped at a bowl of cream set before him. Wren, then, speaks, and something seems off. His muzzle tips toward her, eyes studying her features and the rapid succession of her blinking.

When her question is answered, Akavir considers the berries. A lift of his wolfish brows were given to their host—concern drawing him to question more. “The effects are much like mushrooms when consumed, then?”

But Lilitu is mentioned—and is heart all but pauses in his chest. Relief, surely, that she has not been back to these walls—disappointment that she remains missing. He knows where to search next—and he steels himself, knowing it unwise to simply leave just as swiftly as they had come. And as such, to encourage continued conversation, the swarthy man dips his muzzle, tasting a berry—good faith given.

“Why was she crowned a princess? Especially if she was from another pack?”  The culture of this pack remained strange to him... and thus, he would try to string the pieces of it together. Or, what he could gather.