Moonspear everyone's a whore, grace

It was a familiar face Hydra saw from the vantage point she lingered. She wondered if he would stay, or if he would go; he tips his head backward to summon an audience, and Hydra still wonders behind the reason for his visit. She does not anticipate that he had come to join her ranks; for as long as she had known him, Wintersbane had been a vagrant spirit. Pack to pack he had drifted, but he had at the least remembered to speak of his departure before his going... if she remembered rightly. For whatever reason, Hydra had never begrudged Wintersbane his going all that time ago. He had been willing enough to do what she asked of him in his time with the Blackfeather wolves (as her perception would tell her), and she had not forgotten as much. 

Beyond that Hydra had thought he was no longer of these Wilds. The woods wolves had gone, and Hydra had imagined he had either gone with them or found his own way. Before now, she had not thought much on it. As she approached him, she could not help but wonder where life had led him. To more scars, she guessed—and she searched for them as she bridged the gap, approaching him with ample pride in her own step. The years had fortunately been kind to Hydra, despite what she had lost.

Wintersbane, she drawled, eyes looking him over in search of those scars she had imagined he might have earned. to what do I owe the pleasure? she asked; his was a face she did not mind seeing again.