Seaside Moors he listens to wind secrets

Ah, he responds with the same subdued inflection. You're new here too, I'm guessing.

There's a certain tough jerky quality that all the long-time Rusalkans he'd met so far had. This man, while most definitely not soft, did not. 

He appraises him again -- dense with muscle, denser with fur ... there's a vision of the Cosa Nostra sticking some poor soul into cement shoes and watching as he plummets through the air and then through the water. Cement shoes, it burrows into his mind and sticks there. Something about both his physical and vocal reticence reminds Miranda of fullerene. 

I'm Miranda, he says warmly. It feels safe to know that he isn't the only new wolf cast onto the acidic moorland soil.