The source of the blood is not this woman. Her voice catches his attention before his nose does, and he peers over her with a cool scrutiny. He has not had much to do with women in the past; his brotherhood had been sure of that, though he's not sure he can truly call himself a "man" in the sense that the average person does. Still, he looks upon her without judgment. A solid figure, a shroud of ebony surrounding it. He takes note of the strength in her limbs, the way she seems to hesitate before speaking.

He gives her this: mortals should be hesitant to speak to him. As one of the God-Emperor's chosen sons, he is set apart from them. Apart from her, even. A protector for the hope of the future, the hope she would come to benefit from. And he would give his undying life for this, a soldier of the Imperium to the last.

(And yet, he thinks of soft hands brushing across his scalp, shushing him softly and avoiding the diodes that connect him to his armor. The soft breeze. The babbling of brooks. They took so much from you, didn't they?)

He dips his head slightly, unwolfish in his greeting. "Emperor's gaze upon you." His voice is deep, resonating through his barrel-chest. And yet, as imposing as he is, he does not seek to enter her space, to make her cower. He stays in his circle, expressionless and firm, but not hateful. "Do you smell that?" He supposes she does. They have always been wolves, and that means they can smell things like that.

(Though if this were normal, he thinks, she would be on two legs as well, and her nose wouldn't pick up things half as well as his. They never choose women for his burden.)