The Heartwood Trees, grass, leaves

The priestess' face did not contort to mark that she observed his caution and aggression; she was a mask of regal indifference. But inside, she was reeling. She was close enough to isolate one scent from the mishmash that pervaded on his pelt. One disgustingly familiar scent: Raissa's. Meldresi hid her dislike of Raissa from the wolf, but the members of Blackfeather knew that the southern belle was not her ally.

"No, not at the moment." She walked closer to the wolf, who she assumed was some kind of friend, or even mate of Raissa's, tilting her head up to gaze at the clouds he had seemed so interested in. "I was simply curious as to what you were looking at."