Hemingway supposed that by nature he should have been suspicious of other wolves but he was not habitually a suspicious man. To claim that he trusted blindly would be to spin a lie, he was careful with whom he placed his trust in, but wolves were sociable creature and he had the urge, after not speaking with others in quite some time, traveling alone having wandered off from Wyeth some time ago. There had been four of them when they had departed, four Innisfree's and eventually like the four corners of the wind, they had split into their own paths. Hemingway did not worry so much about them, knowing that they were Innisfree and could certainly take care of themselves. They were a strong family and it was this resolute opinion that kept him from worrying for their safety. He worried for them but not insistently.
The pallid woman gestured for him to follow her, violet eyes catching the supple movement of her muzzle as it pointed in the direction in which she intended to head. Svelte body, with shaggy fur curling in the tepid air as it dripped, still, even despite the furious shake he had given in efforts of expelling excess water from it, moved in the direction she had motioned to, an eye kept upon her as she emerged from the sea's grasp, her own stark fur leaving a dripping trail where she walked. Unlike him, it appeared to Hemingway, his companion did not mind the saturated tendrils of her fur, a piece of seaweed clinging to her side, he noted, for it was hard to notice: green and brown where it clung to her otherwise flawless fur.
“Hello,” The Soothsayer greeted her casually, stopping when he had decided enough distance had been crossed between them, though it was a neutral distance. Enough of a distance that they could communicate comfortably with one another without being too invasive of personal space.