Deepwood Weald That shine for me

Mal ranted and raved and the silver wolf of the Glen made no move to calm him, instead listening to all the words that poured from his mouth. And what a waterfall of words they were. The more she listened, the motre she became rooted to the spot, ears slowly splaying backwards as if a visual indication of her disgust. Rape? Disgusting, lowly, vile.

Mal, hold on. What makes you think all this? It was a lot, she had to admit. A lot of assuming and jumping to conclusions that she didn't quite make. Have they had a run in recently? Since the Saints moved south, I mean? I ask because there's no scent. No proof. It could be anyone.