Deepwood Weald For that with which you are.

The dark woman remembered him. He was grateful to not be forced to endure reintroductions. When her name failed him, she supplied it - Maiken. It was not a common name among the Svartravn wolves of his home pack, but she carried their dark fur and name, anyway. As much as he looked down on her choices, she was the closest thing to home that he might find in those unfamiliar lands. Her mind could be changed, he thought. She was not beyond saving. The black raven would guide her back to reason. 

I am well enough, was the grunt of a response she received. Jörmungandr regarded her with a shrewd eye. He seethed, knowing the path she had followed. It was beyond his ability to understand. The dark man was a killer and Maiken was a healer. They did not share in likemindedness. The burly man had likely killed as many wolves as she had healed, if not more. He had not kept a running tally in many years. The lives he had stolen had once been a point of pride. He had aged beyond the need for boasting in that way. 

You are still pledged to the pale-furred dog. Not a question, but a rumbling statement. Disapproval hung on his features.