Neverwinter Forest Water from your broken iris fell toward the floor

The howl was a relief, a spark of hope that maybe things could work out in the end. He'd dropped his patrol and practically flew through the forest, thinking maybe this was all over. Things could get back to how they should be. He had so much to say to her, so much to mourn, to apologize for. And as he crashed through the trees and popped into view, for that brief second he did look happy -- maybe with a small slice of world-weariness, but it was honest and true.

But spotting the wolf standing next to her, his joy evaporated and the weight of the world came crashing back. He stumbled to a somewhat dazed stop. Donovan. What? Did he think that Mal had captured one of his wolves and was here to trade? Here to gloat? Certainly he wasn't here for anything good. The whiplash of the quick end to all things positive mixed with the anguish that had been lagging behind his shadow, percolating into a venomous, seething hatred that was the most spirit he'd had in the last year, and no less honest than his happiness moments before. It took a second before he stalked forward again with purpose, coming up near Kyr (though he'd missed what she'd said). Mal's now-unkempt fur stood on end, the tall, aggressive stance, ears forward, tail arced above his back -- the whole nine yards of an alpha not only defending his turf but also his people (which included Simmik, of course) -- his spearlike glare bored into the creature that dared to show his face this side of the mountains. He had a death wish, didn't he? But Mal's metamorphosis  probably made him not much like the wolf Simmik had last seen, but his ire was never at her, it was laser focused at the waste of air next to her. He needed to free her, and Donovan needed to go take a quick walk into a long and agonizing death -- a sarlacc pit would be just fine.

Mal was a man who had been pushed well past his limits by the events of the last few months. He was well beyond angry, he had not a joke in his soul, zero patience, and he had not much else to lose. It wasn't hard to miss the cold snarl that filtered just beneath his voice, or the tense line of his lips that didn't cover his teeth that well. He left no room for question, loud, direct, terse, So you brought her home. Now turn and leave before someone gets nasty while you still able to do so. It's not a request. He wasn't even worth a sarcastic "thanks for bringing her home," as even that was too much credit. Honestly, the only thing that probably kept Mal from likely getting himself killed was the fact that he was sure that Donovan would have no qualms killing Simmik if he even tried.

And he would be very adamant about him leaving, just for future reference. Donovan tries to say more than a small handful of words? He was gonna get interrupted by a steadfastly booming "LEAVE." Simmik goes past a sentence and a half or so while that freak still stood there? He'd even interrupt her with a "HE LEAVES." Repeat as necessary to get the point across. Donovan was a danger to them all and Mal was taking no chances. He had nothing to say as long as their enemy was in earshot.