"And I am in no mood to haul an entire carcass back to my borders, anyway. This is a much more preferable arrangement. Are you familiar with hunting sheep?"

Takala blinked, narrow ears flicking forward as curiosity replaced caution. She hadn’t met a pack wolf yet.

"'Borders'? So have a pack?" She tested carefully, her sharp ears pivoting forward with interest. If that were true, then he was far from home. Interesting.

Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed as she awaited his response, searching for anything out of place. He seemed ordinary enough, but something about him stuck in her mind, refusing to relieve. Perhaps it was her own sheltered upbringing among her Northerner family—their brutish, loud, and unyielding presence. This wolf, however, carried himself differently. His company reminded her of autumn in the valley with her family: warmth, glowing leaves, and air sweet on the tongue. The thought stirred a deep ache in her chest. She swallowed hard, briskly shaking her head as though to dislodge it. No use lingering just to torture herself.

Regaining focus, her gaze flitted to his steady stride, which closed the distance between them with ease. There was something in the way he moved—agile and measured—that hinted at rehearsed ease. So he was a runner, then!

"Oh - please, forgive my manners and lack thereof. My name is Francis Delacroix. And what may I call you, Miss...?"

“Takala,” she said finally, offering a brief, weary smile. “Just Takala.” She would have to adapt to his way of speech if she wanted to fit in here, wherever here was.

“Delacroix?” Her brow furrowed slightly as she repeated the name. “Where are you from?”