Moonspear tell me who to call

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Lambs before the slaughter, the wolves come from out of the shadows. One figure is a dark mist, intimidating upon the borders as she perches—as if daring them to make a wrong move, for her eyes would catch it and it’d be enough to sentence judgement. The other is a mix of autumn leaves and cool greys, composure and confidence bleeding into one.
Helios is under inspection by two sets of eyes—three if you count the persistent pair that roams behind him. He twitches, his own eyes of fire never darting to the eyes present, avoiding contact.
Knowledge, he answers, simple and an uncertainty that lingers a beat later—Helios has never needed to do a sales pitch to prove his worth and why he ought to be welcomed into a pack full of strangers. A place to stay and learn from, to… give back to, and one that would not war within itself. He adds, ears swerving and tail tip flicking slightly in the direction of Salazar.