Her cry comes soon enough, though it is to be expected from such a pack. It seems she, too, may be on edge with the change of season. It is spring that is most insufferable at times. Though the prey is plentiful, so are the young upstarts that wish to take bites too large to chew. Though my own blood is hot with agitation, I do my best to remain respectful on the borders of the plains. I maintain a safe position and remain on the outer cusp towards the no-mans land that separates her scent from the wilds. Here, I wait as patiently as one can considering the circumstances. I lust for answers - hunger for them, ceaselessly so.
As she comes into view, I shift myself to better accept her arrival. I do my best to conceal the brunt of the wounds. Despite Hadrian's efforts, they are still wounds nonetheless and they continue to reek of blood and scab. Even if they display themselves as weakness, however, I have no doubt my face may speak otherwise: I can feel the muscles become taut with an unwavering seriousness, my eyes hard onto her form as she comes to a standstill. She is familiar in a sense and yet wholly her own wolf. Her face is a myriad of scars, twisted and gnarled. It aids to remind me of the pale female that had come to my borders. Whereas she had been gnarled, pale and child sized, this one is otherwise. She looks as an Alpha might without boasting. It is a good thing, I think, to be as such. This is not a fight of our egos, after all.
I speak after several short moments, my brow twitching upwards as my lip pulls back into an almost... annoyed expression for but a split second. An indication, perhaps, of what is to come.
Perhaps this wolf does not owe me an answer. After all, Glorall and Asteraia hold no particular alliance and yet, these things can change. I do not presume to understand the female that had come for Glorall and perhaps I am wrong entirely about her origin. If that is the case, then perhaps it is not only I that needs to deal with the potential storm.