Barrow Fields the worst thing about prison was the dementors

mahler's gaze lifted when the note spoke, another tone; this one edged with smoke and honey. he straightened as her mien shifted and she grew pliable beneath his lilac glower, and let his own tension ebb away, at least in part. mahler was unused to company of his own kind, and less of women. his interludes with them had been lustful and brief, small fires in the otherwise grey landscape of his memories.
more, came her inquiry; the man gave a low chuff through his nostrils, looking rather bestial as he regarded her with the leap of some sudden misgiving in his eyes. yet it passed; mahler warmed to her sunflower nature once more. "yes."
he confirmed them with a small step to the right, then the left, forward; if she wished, she would follow, he knew, and he found in their closeness that his innate mistrust of other wolves had dulled, if only a little.