Silvertip Mountain look well, o wolves

The argent-coated Greek had been a little ways off, not far, perhaps, but farther than those who’d caught wind of the feline before him. Never had he been a fighter, preferring a calm spoken resolve over the clashing of teeth. It was not that he was ignorant in the ways of battle, but more a personal preference. For him, keeping away from the fight was always better in comparison to being apart of it. Despite that, when a howl rang out through the mountain, a song to summon the pack, he wasted little time in answering it. His legs carried him over the rocky terrain, little care for the possibility of slipping. Self-injury did not, at the time, matter to him. The only thoughts on his mind were reaching the location from which the call had resonated, and to assist in the defending of the pack’s land. Each who held a place within the group called the peaks home, and he’d not allow for himself to be so ungrateful as to turn tail and hide.
 
By some stroke of luck, Alastor found himself coming up on the same side of the beast as the boy had. His eyes stayed trained on the overgrown housecat, body dropping low as he stalked forward. Only after he’d positioned himself between their unwelcomed guest and Mason did his movements cease altogether. He stood stock-still, muscles tensing beneath his coat as he physically prepared himself. His ears stood erect atop his crown, listening both to the words of his pack mates, as well as whatever sounds came from the puma. It was then he took notice to the smaller frame against the cat’s large one. At first, he hadn’t even realized Zaria had initiated an encounter with the predator, his focus having been set on keeping the child out of harms way. His pale optics darted to Fitz, then, uncertain of how to proceed. Did the female’s attack mean they were all to take action, or something else? Until told to do otherwise, Alastor kept himself between the scuffle and Mason.