Loka stood up without taking the offered hand and Gregor withdrew, his eyes narrow under the raptorian arch of his brow. While Loka searched the forest floor for her belongings, so did Gregor look for his hat. He found it on a branch of one of the many birch trees, undamaged, and planted it firmly back on his raven-haired head. A glint of silver caught his eye while walking back to the werewolf's corpse and Gregor sank down on his haunches. "Flayers take her," the inquisitor hissed. 

Upon returning to the clearing, Loka opened her mouth before Gregor had a chance to speak. Her question bespoke of her ignorance. Gregor chuckled, an unpleasant sound colored by his mood, and shook his head. "I should have known someone like you would not have been able to deduce this, but the inquisition is a [i]secret[/i] organization. Half of the peasantry is terrified of us and the other half doesn't believe we exist. Would you speak truly to a man you knew to be judge, jury and executioner? Hiding in plain sight is essential to this line of work. So yes, Loka," he said tersely, "I must bring the head."

After a brief pause, Gregor held up the silver fork he'd found. There was no mistaking where it came from. He'd eaten with a fork like that no more than three days ago. "If you take something that doesn't belong to you again," he continued, his voice cold and sinister, "I will take one of your fingers. Do you understand me?"