Silverlight Terrace i.ix : who was breaking away from the pack

She spoke; it wasn't a name he knew, all things considered. He knew of the wolves of Blackfeather because they were the wolves of the dark, the things that went bump in the night. They were the stories he'd hear before bed as a child but they were not so specific as to name names. So he heard her, and he accepted her name - committed it to memory along with the look of that creeping scar and the scent of her bloody vomit. 

You don't have to stick around, she mentioned, which was a good point. He never had to do anything he didn't want to. This was something he chose, just like any patrol or escorting job he sought out. But if she didn't need any further aid then he would leave — but first, he lurched towards her. Even before she finished speaking he was striding towards her - which might've been seen as an attack, with the quick manner in which he moved - but he stopped when he was looming over her. With a slight canting of his head he nosed around in her coat, taking a few deep breaths. Beyond that saline scent that hugged her figure he could find no scent of true illness; he caught her natural musk, and added that to his knowledge of her. Then, as sharply as he'd approached, he withdrew.

A few moments later the mist crept in to where he had been standing, and his heavy steps resounded across the terrace as he left her company.