Hideaway Strath in the old days, there was enough

An impish sort of grin graced her lips, feeling a sort of affinity or kinship with the male -- Patroclus -- for she had said something similar to Lovecraft once as they braved the blizzard together through the dark. "Aye, it's nice to meet ye," the combat medic agreed simply, softly, and meant it. He was rather amiable -- kind even; as most Saints had been. Whrist truly was the only one that had done her any harm, and perhaps there was more to the torment she'd seen swirling in the black pearl's gaze than Aerin originally guessed. Her fellow Specialist did seem to regret the incident, even if she was too proud to admit it. Perhaps it was up to Fen to be the bigger person (wolf?) and seek her attacker out first. The girl of countless names knew all too much about such agony. 

The sighthound pulled herself from her internal musings over the trustworthiness of her pack mates, silently resolving herself to keep a more open mind in the future as she refocused her attention on the earthy man before her. Not every wolf was a Whrist, most were akin to Patroclus -- as the druids had once taught her.

"Ye are new, I'm guessing?" she asked curiously, not having seen him amongst the other Saints that she was slowly becoming familiar with.