Redsand Canyon as the building continues to burn

The stranger took his time noticing his new visitor, greeting Finley with little more than a nod. “Carefully.” Not the talkative type either, eh? She could appreciate that. Of the Saints she knew thus far, the most talkative more than compensated for the rest. A good trait on Donovan’s behalf, perhaps, seeing as he’d amassed so many in so little time; on Nemisis, Finley would swear to hell and back she was reserving her judgment. The hammer had come down days ago, but it was of little relevance here and now.

Then again, a marked pause before dubbing the pack’s… meeting, whatever it had been, further cemented Finley’s idea that she might be meeting someone of similar mind. Renard introduced himself with a dip of the muzzle, and Finley lifted her head from the water to return the gesture. “Finley.”

And thus, with names swapped, Finley was subject to the mortifying ordeal of making small talk. Among those she’d spoken with thus far, the subject of one’s “sad” story before the Saints never failed. Right to the point, then: “So, Renard, what brought you to the Saints?” Had he sparred with Donovan, was he taking to the heat just as well as the cacti, what did he make of that “meeting”; surely learning more about someone was simple as running down a checklist. The one-sided nature of these questions, that of an interrogator and a hapless subject, had occurred to Finley, sure, but she’d had little trouble getting past them thus far.

There were also those scars. Not as glaring as those on Derg’s face, and perhaps missed on a first look, but scarring nonetheless. Finley studied Renard more intently. If his story was at all similar to Derg’s, she’d have to start keeping track of the packmates whose casual exteriors hid the marks and strength of seasoned fighters.