*Half his pack is down, its youngest member flung violently through the trees, his territory has been invaded and now his own blood has been drawn - all in the name of talking. Fenrir knows a lot about humans and their talk. They talk themselves into wars, into laws, into fear and into their own prisons. They have defined language as the pillars of their society, the height of intelligence, the differentiation between them and what they see as common animals. For this reason alone, Fenrir has never been one for talk - particularly when the terms of this new discourse have never even been stipulated. It feels like an interrogation, but to what end he has no idea. There is nothing to interrogate him about. He's made a point of being open with his activities. There's only one possibility.

He reaches a hand into the many layers of fur and stolen clothing, ripping something off from a string of twine. Opening an enormous hand he reveals several elegant finger bones.*

If you're here for her, it's too late.