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Surprised at his voice perhaps, Mason spotted the wolf turn tensely. Before the boy had a chance to backpedal in fear, the large black man relaxed, and Mason felt his thrumming heart gentle itself before it had truly begun to beat faster. Mason returned the gesture of scent-taking, catching a strong whiff of a pack he didn’t know. The way Taggarik’s tail had raised like a flag on a mast before relaxing spoke of a born leader – although not necessarily one in his current situation. Mason kept his posture safe and low.
 
“I’m from Silvertip Mountain! I’m called Mason.” Mason exclaimed, his tail waving around behind his buttocks like a tarpaulin in a strong wind. Mason looked about nosily, but he knew there was no scent of the man here besides the trail he had just left. “Where is your pack? Did you come to hunt a sheep?” Mason knew something of taking down mountain creatures, although he wasn’t sure even a rangy masculine guy like this could take one down alone, unless it was a youth.