Shadow Mountain zoka

The she-wolf rose with composure that Anselm almost admired. I don't know any useful vomen. He answered, a curl of his lips announcing his disdain further.

It was not that he hated women. Did he hate women? He held the burn of her stare as she brushed by him, rigid. She was pretty, close enough to his age -- but so many hardened miles under that sorrowed stare. So many leagues of unfathomable grief Anselm would never be able to peel the layers back from.

But he was already halfway there, wasn't he? They may have walked the very same road. 

Go on then. He was not above setting his teeth in someone's hide -- anything to chase away the dragons that settled around his barbed heart.