Qeya River over the hills and far away

If one does not consider a little, rotund, fluffy and oldish she-wolf as a prey, then no - there was not any in the vicinity of the hunter with agouti pelt. Had there been any, they would have already scrambled and run for the hills, because, while not being particularly fast, Nanny Apple could move as a force of nature. And add the off-tune humming and occasionally sung out words and you would not have any questions of why no one was around.

She spotted the man in the distance and stopped, suddenly overcome by a memory of her first mate. Alistair had been a young and adventurous soul, very similar to the wolf in the distance. Coat in myriad shades of gray, black and white, amber colored eyes, burning with passion and dazzlingly good looks. No wonder that then almost a year young Apple Blackthorn had been swept off her feet (both figuratively and literally) and without so much as a goodbye to her parents and the rest of her family had eloped with him. 

That had been a glorious summer for the two young wolves, who were so much in love at that time, but around autumn the idyll came to an end. Alastair had had a very bad habit of talking a little too much in front of the wrong people and a need to be constantly on the adrenaline rush. While not a bad fighter, he was nowhere nearly as good enough to handle bigger guys. But being just as stubborn as he was stupid, he just kept getting in trouble. And by that time - tired of constantly taking care of his wounds, and offended by his obvious preference to fights over her, she had got up and left one day and never looked back.

Until today, when this first flame had re-entered her memory. She drew closer, realizing that this guy was totally different from her dimwitted first husband. Which was good, because he was probably dead, because someone knocking a sense into his head was not very likely. "Greetings, young man," she said, though the said man was almost as old as her. "Where do you hail on this lovely day?"