Moonspear fulthark

He seems a caricature; consumed by the inability to attach explanation to anything at all. If there was a noticeable glimmer of cognition in the strange wolf, Dirge didn't see it. Instead he has the perception to sense emotion instead though it cycled by like the twist and turn of a kaleidoscope. An ounce of grief, then nothing at all. A bewildering prospect, one that further darkens any considerations Dirge could make.

His hackles prickled at the lurching, that unsteady rise into apparent fog that almost threatens to consume him too. A pit settles in him then, sinking low in his belly. It is a double-edged sword masquerading as Occam's razor—does he help or does he drive him away when he's clearly so addled? Lyra would more than likely have none of it, presuming he could pry her away from Hydra to provide aid; the coldness of her being of recent memory had not left him, nor was lost on him.

Before he is able to consider his options, cognition ricochets back to his company.

Again, he was left to regard him warily; either he's been addled with a minder for a spell or it's the cause of something else, surely. Survival dictated what would and what not exist and for how long, though certainly the world had many hands to yet left to play. Another snippet, another glimmer like a diamond in the rough leaves him questioning. He leaves the questions unanswered to favor hanging onto that cognizant moment.

"Who is she?"