Sawtooth Spire I can't get you out from under my veins

Wylla's silent snarl and tense posture disappeared the moment Quellcrist dropped to the ground, replaced by an accepting yet impassive lift of her brows. The display was more intense than Wylla hoped for, but she saw no problem whatsoever with that. The girl regained her feet soon enough but remained crouched. That was enough to completely placate the third Eisen, who took the opportunity while the two conversed to step forward and inspect Q's scent. It was decidedly strange.

Wylla figured out what it was half a second before Quellcrist herself supplied the answer: a pet otter. A pet otter that evidently hung around the young she-wolf enough for her to smell like one. Wylla couldn't help but to scoff. What? Q did realize this was a pack of wolves on the tail end of a famine, right? Bringing her otter friend along seemed like an extraordinarily bad idea. How the hell, wondered Wylla, did she even befriend an otter? It was like asking a pack of Dunk-a-Roos to sign your yearbook.

Number one, said Wylla, are we gonna have to deal with any of these Seabolt folks coming looking for you when you fail to turn up? Number two, this was delivered a little more flatly, and she knew it was a bad question to ask, but Wylla'd never been very good at shutting her stupid mouth, the otter's like, an emergency snack pack, right? Everything else Quellcrist said sounded pretty good. A pack could never have enough hunters. But the otter? Yeah, it'd definitely be eaten if she brought it here. Probably by Wylla herself, if she had half a chance.