Thunder Dome The Mammy

A pack, dear Cashew, he chuckled, his voice rolling as gently as a summer rain against the torrent surrounding the two. It pat his head and ran along his back as easily as it soaked into his white hairs. Indeed, the man did not smell of a pack's scent; what little he had long since had been snatched off his fur by spring breezes. 

He preferred it that way.

My name is Shard, what a pleasure. But may I ask... what of you? What do you call a group of... o-of- sorry, what exactly are you? I've never gotten the opportunity to ask such a lovely lady before. I don't mean to be rude.