Tuktu Weir nothing like a big bad bridge

"so you have heard of me. most wolves have," ravinger preens without hesitation, his tail swaying absentmindedly behind him as he does so.  in his mind, he knows that he's the most popular of his relatives. "i'm the grandson of the king, you know, but please, no bowing required." he assures henryk with a coquettish glance, complete with a wink.    as usual, he's laying it on think as stone.  this is how a wolf makes a good impression, as far as ravinger's concerned -- the more flamboyant and showy, the better.  how else are new wolves supposed to know what the good wolves of kingslend are like?  he has a brand to maintain.

"but enough of that. what's your name?" the slender wolf queries handsomely (that is to say, he asks the question while looking as devilishly handsome as one as beautiful as him possibly can). "we aren't related, which means you're fair game," incredibly straightforward, ravinger clicks his tongue on the verge of a wretched realization. "and don't tell me one of my cousins has already gotten to you.  that would just be awful, and a waste of your time, really.  none of them are quite as nice and lovely to be around as i. let me assure you." he flutters his lashes a little, a throaty chuckle making its way in there, too.