Loka walked sullenly with her arms wrapped around her body, following where the Inquisitor lead.

She had needed it.  Of course he couldn't understand.  But she had been right.  She knew when she needed things.  The little silver blessing had saved her life.  She had done the right thing.

The werewolf's head bounced sickeningly against Gregor's thigh as he marched.  They would stay in Oaksheart, he said.  Did you notice how wild and mad it was, he said.

"Yes, I noticed," she said, bitterly.  "It was as if the world was screaming at me.  I could hear its blood, inside my head.  Taste it."

She looked back miserably at the fading fires, and the charnel pit that the man-beast had made its home.

"The village is this way." She pointed at an oblique angle through the impenetrable thicket of shadows.  "I can still smell the..."

The bottom dropped out of her mind.  

Loka trailed off, slow realization creeping up her gut.  Her head turned sharply from the direction of the road to look back at the distant shadow of the lair.  To regard the loathsome severed head, thick with male pheromones, gripped in the dark shape of the Inquisitor's gloved hand.  She craned her neck to stare straight up at the pallid, drifting northern moon.  

The moon.  That odd and yet familiar scent to the blood.  So that was it.  The answer had been right in front of her all the time.

"There is another," she said, bleakly, as the moon disappeared behind the heavy bank of cloud. "It's a female."