Frostfire Ridge drowning in the crowd

The sound was given an origin as the agouti, earthen colored male came to fall within Semet's fiery gaze, pupils narrowing as he sniffed at the air, cautious, the sleek muscles beneath his coat pulled taunt as he hindered upon flight or fight. Semet knew that picking a fight with another wolf, one that struck him as large and burly — though there was at least a good ten feet between them so it hard to discern how similar or different their sizes were — was not the wisest of decisions. He was a lone wolf and his strength had a higher purpose, reserved as it was for his hunting and travels. Putting food in his belly and seeking shelters was more important than tussling with strangers and it was this logic that kept him from charging at the other. Yet, he did not seek to flee, either. After all, he'd been here first — or thus Semet assumed but the truth was he had no proof of that.

For a long moment he observed the other, sniffing at the breeze when it picked up between them, tussling the silken tendrils of Semet's fur back along with it, like the gentle caress of a lover's fingers. There was a familiarity to the male's scent, though the male himself was inherently a stranger. He smelled like the pack to the west of Frostfire Ridge...and thought the idea seemed impossible almost like Thuringwethil. He was not sure where his Heda had fled after her destruction of those unloyal to her within Seageda. Semet did not make to close the distance, instead let out “Heda.” in his gruff voice, not used often but effective for inquiring what he could not communicate through body language. Would this beast recognize the title of Thuringwethil? Semet did not know but he knew Heda's scent; and he trusted his intuition above all else.