Whitefish River I like the honey, not the honeybee

the male's deep call is chilling, especially in the wake of another small quake in the fog-stained day. she answers it swiftly, hearing once more the call of alarm once she draws close. the familiar clench of worry, unease, takes hold, and she breaks through the fog to come to rest a short distance before the behemoth of a visitor, stilling as she takes in his outward appearance. 

familiarity tinges, and she smells a moment burning grass and deadwood. it takes a moment, but the name comes to her - his size, and the nature of their meeting, is not something easily forgot. "greyback," she names him, striding forth to benefit a distance benefiting allies and not strangers. the question she poses is asked with the tilt of her ears and cant of her head, fur prickling and tail carried high in wake of his alarm call. what's wrong?