Wheeling Gull Isle hike up your skirt a little more

 Komodo’s head nodded at her response, as if he understood implicitly; he really understood nothing, but he accepted and respected that fact. Clearly this shivering, jaunty woman had seen some shit, things he could never see in his entire life, and those experiences were uniquely her own. Even if she could verbalize her troubles, he would never, truly understand. No one ever could. Komodo could only do as he did with all his patients: empathize, compartmentalize and hope the gods answered his prayers. 

The angukkuq closed the distance between them, pulling up alongside her small form and shielding her with his own. Komodo was a tactile wolf and believed touch to be a divine thing — herbs and spells had their place in healing, but much of a wolf’s suffering was simply a mental or energetic disruption and an honest connection could work miracle. A grumble formed deep in his chest, demonstrating the protectiveness he suddenly felt towards the tiny woman. Nothing should have to live a life of fear, and those responsible would pay heartily. “Show me,” he commanded, figuring that he could do nothing with the information he had been given. His tone noted that this request was something to be taken seriously — though the mottled brute could not even begin to guess what he would be shown; if she had anything to show.