Moonspear tell me who to call

Whispers on the breeze, a cold damp breath across the back of his neck. Salazar rose panting, restless, hidden from the gilded eyes of the raven-haired youth he had come to regard as part ward, part friend, and part-time traveling companion. Often he wandered far from the boy, but something kept him close this time. Intuition, he decided, catching the fading scent and following it. Something was about to happen. Windy murmurings at his back urged him forward through the mist, lit a fire beneath his paws. Yet he didn't rush, steps slowed by the scent of a pack in the distance. He trailed at a distance, letting the boy stretch his broken wings in solitude. This was a step forward, perhaps even a leap, and Sal had no intention of treading over it.
Yards remained between them when he slowed, and eventually he settled at a comfortable distance. Lingering near, yet pressed into the background; a secondary player in this game. Fiery eyes flicked over his companion, then forward, to the objective. A large pack, he noted with nose tipped upward, and a quick smile stole over his features. His raven was ambitious, reaching for new heights already in the wake of tragedy. Fascinating. He would tag along, then, if only to see what peak the boy might reach in time. He ghosted forward a few steps with the air of a smug cat, holding his silence for now.