Moonspear all my friends are heathens

Beckoned—a man came and with impressive swiftness. It pleased Argent—a mental tick box on his proverbial check list: well guarded and responsive. Pelage of blend of sand and wood, it was the brighter crimson that flagged his tail that caught the silver wolf’s eye momentarily—his own fur a stark contrast of pale gunmetal silver.

There was no comment made by the other, despite the opportunity presenting itself. It didn’t deter the Sandraudiga, who found his own large form lowering in turn, respectful upon the borders of the man’s home.

“Hello,” he offered, breaking the silence. “I see you have a claim here—I was wondering if I could know more of what kind of pack this is.” He gave pause, a wisp of a smile gracing his broad muzzle. “I’m Argent.”