Sawtooth Spire i'm heading straight for the castle

While Wintersbane mulled over whether Greyson was being too forward, Wylla flashed a wry smile in response to his candor. It took a lot of balls to tell a pack of wolves they were the convenient choice rather than the first choice, given how easily said pack could be offended by it. What made their pack different from any other pack in the world, besides the wolves in it? For Wylla, it wasn't like one pack was better or more prestigious than another. She would've scoffed at the very thought.

Unlike many border guards, Wylla had no use for a wolf's skills. She had no love of conducting stiff interviews. She'd always been the type to see for herself what made a wolf—that had been true in Grimnismal, as well. So she appraised the soggy Greyson with a critical eye, surveying the mass of him, the rugged look of his coat, the lustre of his eyes. Healthy, so obviously he could feed himself. Strong enough to get this far up the mountain.

Good enough.

Hunt with us, she proposed, shooting Wintersbane a quick side-eye. There are usually hares on this part of the mountain. Show us what you can do. She didn't say it, but unless Greyson screwed up the fundamentals of hunting, she wouldn't turn him away. They were in the unfortunate position of being low on adult numbers and couldn't afford to be choosy, so long as their cool grey candidate could at least find living prey.