Ravensblood Forest when the bullets pierced his body, he was already gone

The stranger was a slim wolf – but not by any means one to scoff at. Constantine had learned during his time in Tartok that while brute strength could come from the sheer size of a wolf, it did not always equate ferocity or tactics – the smallest of wolves could best another. He himself was by no means a behemoth, though stocky, and so the wraith studied this visitor with quiet curiosity, not keen to start a disturbance until he held more information.
 
It would seem he might not need to – the casual greeting in which he received (a laid back ‘hey’) stirred his own muscles to relax lightly and his ears would cup forward as the other continued, explaining he had been through here the other day. A light nod was given in understanding, though the [i]shadow runner’s[.i] gaze remained intent upon the other, not quite indicating one way or the other how he felt about the matter. “We seek to claim this forest soon,” he explained, leaving it at the most simplistic explanation possible. “I’m Constantine Mayfair.”