Moonspear Words mean nothing when your lips are so blue

Hydra, behaving the stranger, nodded and said agreeably: I will. It was then he asked their name, and Hydra said with a grin: Alra. A lazy blend of Alya, Lyra, but there it was. Her tail waved as Hydra shifted her demeanor, and she drawled now, separating from her character by stepping alongside Dragomir: sometimes, it is that simple. Other times it is not. I have had a wolf come to our borders expressing they did not know how to hunt. They were not young, either. They came to us starving; I am not the sort who gives handouts. Others are kinder than me, but in the famine I used my discretion; to be able to hunt is a minimum requirement if you are a yearling. Not necessarily to make the kill, but at least the proper way to give chase. To separate and determine the weak among the strong, she hummed. 

Perhaps Dragomir did not think of it then, but Alra could hunt; swift traveler, swift chaser. Or they could partake in the hunt through finding the herd itself. That sort of thing. As long as a wolf could contribute to what brought the pack together beyond just the children, they could join the fold.