Dragoncrest Cliffs thursday night began much like the others, but ended much less happily.

It is not his way to remain hidden, for surely it is an impossible feat. He might not be the largest of the wolves in these wilds but he is hulking, hardly bothered by the prospect of being found-out by any force. Confident in his own abilities. He did not endure the fickle nature of his commander just to become a sleuth — so when his target shifts and appears to show an interest in the forest, he is neither glad nor bothered. She blinks against the scattered spots across her vision and he uses this moment to lunge from the tree line, thrusting step after step against the rocky ridge as if it is his intention to pummel the earth in to submission. 

He draws close, but appears to be more interested in the mighty ledge from which she dangles her limbs. The beast's gait slows from its quaking shudder to an abrupt absence of movement entirely, and he turns his stony face to the crumbling ledge as if he is judging the distance. Perhaps he will find the Cairn children further down; the sea rolls and booms with a familiar pulse against the stonework below, but there is little beachfront that he can spy.

As he withdraws he turns the deadpan glare upon the woman. His breath is naturally deep and heavy, and out of him drawls a draconic voice tinged with a palpable loathing. I am hunting for the Cairn. He does not elaborate; however, the beast waits for her to speak all the same, assuming that her brine-heavy coat is a mark of a loyalist to the bloodline. This view is tremendously limiting but Tetsubō is not an imaginative creature, nor a conversationalist.