Loka could see the Inquisitor's hand extended to her, from her position slumped at his feet.  Her jailor.  Her savior.  She kept her eyes on the headless, mountainous carcass of the wolf, and pretended not to see.

She stood quickly with a heavy creak of leather, her coat sliding backward up the trunk of the shattered birch, pulling back her hands.  

"I am alright." she said, tightly.  She filled her lungs, drawing in the river of midnight scents, letting it out in a slow, shaking breath.  The wolf stank of corruption and sweat and fresh, hot blood.  Like the blood of the victims it had taken, smeared across the surface of its lair.  The moon bore down on her relentlessly, and she felt very, very far from home.

"I am alright." she said again.

She stepped around the pooling blood as though repelled and bent low, searching, not finding her bread -- as if she would spit upon it now even if she had been starving -- but eventually spotting the glint of her cosmetics tin and plucking it up before looking carefully around for the other item.  She turned and looked back to Nykerius.

"Must you bring that with us?" she eyed the enormous, shaggy head sidelong, still dripping darkly onto the forest floor. "Will the Inquisitor's word not suffice that... that the [i]creature[/i] is dead?"