Deepwood Weald For that with which you are.

It had been many months since the dark wolf had crossed paths with the Svartravn healer. Their last encounter had baffled him to his core. He was still unable to comprehend the willingness to pledge herself to a pale-fur. It was not in them, to submit so willingly to the enemy. To Jörmungandr, it did not matter that they had left their homes and their blood. The dark wolf carried these things with him, ingrained in the fibres of his very being. Without them, the tradition would die. 

In the unfamiliar weald, the dark man believed he heard a familiar song. The voice called to him, a reminder of his home. The large figure stalked through the wood, eye hungering for the presence of the voice to reveal itself. It could not be a trick of the gods, he thought with a shrewd narrowing of his wine-colored gaze. Jörmungandr breathed a gust into the winter air. 

Just ahead of where the imposing figure stood was a lithe dark shape. 

Svartravn healer, he growled into the air. The gods must have been toying with him, then. The dark wolf could now smell the remnants of the pack she had joined. The stench of the unworthy, he mused internally as his snout was lifted to sniff at the wind.