Neverwinter Forest My Fifty-Mission Cap

Obediently, Jackalope avoided making any further comments about the pack's name, but only because Simmik actually seemed to be taking their threat fairly seriously. He wondered exactly what had happened to make the pack so wary of a bunch of dingbats calling themselves saints- but he got the feeling it might also be a sensitive topic. He was treading on thin ice enough as it was, and he got the feeling as she tensed, and swallowed before answering his next question, that Simmik had had personal experience with the wolf she then described. 

Her reluctance to speak told him volumes, and what he inferred made him fume. "A shitstreak on his face. Got it." He said in a low voice. Still, a somewhat vague description. He wanted to ask for the colour of his eyes- but didn't want to push the topic. Simmik wasn't the type of wolf who he thought would be easily shaken; so for her to struggle even the slightest with this, he was led to believe that whoever this wolf was...They'd done something terrible. He wanted to apologize to her, or to reach out and tell her she'd never have to worry about that man again. He wanted to strangle the life out of the creature and bring his pelt back as proof, so that Simmik could sleep easily- but somehow...He figured she might prefer if he hadn't noticed the way she struggled. She was obviously trying to hide something- so in a rare bid to help his packmate relax, Jackalope shrugged- and though it felt somewhat wrong, he feigned ignorance, taking her advice at face value.

"Seems like there's douche-trots everywhere nowadays." He said. "Fortunately, they tend to repel one another. You know, just by taking me into the pack, you're lessening the chances that that slithering bag of weevil-dung- or any others like him- will come this way." He said, with a light and airy voice. He glanced over at her with a coy side-eye, once more trying to glean any form of amusement from her features.