Hideaway Strath in the old days, there was enough

For a moment, she was hesitant -- recalling all too vividly Whrist's unexplained assault only days before, her wounds still raw and red. Kynareth had not lied moons ago, before she abandoned the Canyon in pursuit of her once-captor, when he said his band was home to those the outside world might consider monsters. Aerin wasn't sure where exactly that left her. Perhaps she was so damaged by other monsters that their ranks were all that remained to her, a darkly amusing if ironic thought. She watched him carefully as he drew near on similarly mindful steps, gunmetal gaze peering unreadably through the dying light in search of signs of aggression, but the cinderpelt seemed kind enough. 

Like with so many other Saints before him, the halfling found that her head had to fall back some -- eyes lifting slightly upwards -- to meet the gold starshine of his gaze (their color prompting her to wonder idly with bemusement how many more golden-eyed wolves would find themselves amongst their ranks), even though he stopped a few feet away. "'ello," the medic lilted back raspily, porcelain diadem dipping in a formal manner -- an old, dying habit. "Nae, I'm afraid not," she admitted sheepishly shortly afterwards, lips quirking momentarily in an awkward little smile. "Ye?"

"I'm Aerin, by ze vay," the healer added after a moment, allowing a polite smile to find its way to her lips as she introduced herself.