Wild Berry Meadow she the full moon, he the werewolf

Perhaps not, she answers swiftly. He goes by many. Screech, Tit, Mouse, any of those derivatives—I imagine I could not know them all. I can respect a chameleon; I cannot respect a coward. He fled the corpse of Galaxy when she was a cub, my younger sister. Vela's littermate, she explains. Guilt made him run, I know now for certain. But then, there were some who somehow thought him innocent. Their hearts were too pure, I know. I permitted him to live last I saw him but took an eye from him, She did not regret this. It was not without consideration she let him live. All of her actions were for something, and she had known that the terrible wolf would reveal his true colors. And he had. Then he joined the Redhawks, and attacked their then-pregnant leader. They thought they killed him, but no, I smell him on you, she informed. It comes down to me. 

So—does a lanky, one-eyed, dimwitted wolf sound at all familiar to you? Names meant nothing. Scents did, and that eye—a way in which she could always know him.