Quinn had barely realised he was moving, not recognising the motion nor the shift for what it was until his body had come skidding to a halt on the edge of the canyon. 

The scream had called to him, dragging at some small, feral part of him that reacted long before his brain had quite caught on. 

He pauses, only taking enough time to take the scene in for what it is. 

A young woman to the right hand side, hair the colour of the heart of the flame, face contorted with a snarl as she faces down the enemy. In her wake another, who is the first to turn to look at the Wolf. 

The smell of blood that clings to the air so intently, it seems to stick to his fur. 

Surpassing even that, however, was the smell as fear. So thick in the air that it was something that could be taken between fingers and toyed with. 

He knows no context, no understanding of right and wrong here. 

No idea what has preceded this, but he knows the smell of fear, and that is all he needs to answer the question of who needs his help. 

One by one, all eyes turn to him. The shock a visible, ricocheting thing he can see ripple through the strangers forms. 

A man, more mountain than human being, pivots, taking the Wolf in. 

That is when he notices the wings, glittering in the moonlight, splattered with blood and torn. 

It is his turn for shock then, but he does not allow it to dominate him, to distract him. Instead, he takes off once again. 

He lunges from the canyon side, grit, rubble and dirt sent flying as he surges forward. He lands half way down the slope, relying on momentum and gravity both to finish the journey. 

Quinn skids to a stop, the growl coming from the back of his throat before he can quite stifle it. But he is pushing forward, hackles high and fur bristling. 

The moment of surprise lasts only a moment, the winged stranger's gaze darting across the Wolf, taking careful measure of Quinn as he does the same. 

The man starts forward, drawing the blade skyward. The weight of the blade apparent, fresh blood and gore dripping from the lethal point. 

A blade isn't something the Wolf has ever fought against, in a lifetime of war and battle that was one weapon he had never faced down face to face. 

The only close contact he'd ever had with them, the ornamental blades of the family home. 

Blades that the Grimmaldi family had possessed for decades, centuries even. Largely weapons of hunters who would have had them dead, prized possessions of destroyed packs, and their own family blades from a time long ago. 

Never had he needed to fight against one. 

He catches no scent of silver on the air, nor wolfsbane.

But he had no way of knowing for certain what laws he had lived his life by at home, might exist here. 

That blade might well cleave him open as easily as a knife swipes through butter.

The stranger feints forward, stabbing at the wolf. Quinn dodges, the weapon cleaving through air where his flank had been a heartbeat prior. The sword clangs against the cold earth, piercing the first few inches of soil. 

The night air is pierced by a metallic hum as the stranger pulls the sword free of the earth, the frustration a thing Quinn can smell boiling in the other man's blood. Though the features remain unerringly calm as the mountain of a man turns on him again. 

His heartbeat sings in his ears, the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

Quinn moves left, paws steady beneath him, leaving broad pawprints in cold dirt. His strides are long and calculated as he completes a neat circle around the stranger. Pushing the monster of a man further away from the redhead and her injured companion. 

The movement subtle, the stranger not realising he is taking small steps of retreat in an effort to keep the Wolf at a distance. 

Quinn's lips pull back in a snarl, revealing enormous, glinting fangs. 

The sword swings out at him, timed with a jabbing step. But the Wolf sees the movement coming before the stranger's mind has fully formed the idea, snaking round in time to dodge it. 

Dodge it and snap at the hand holding the blade.

His fangs tear into flesh, the bite fleeting but the metallic taste of blood floods his mouth. 

The taste a delicacy - the first time in years that he tasted blood that wasn't his own.

The hand snatches back, dropping the blade as it does, falling to the earth with a clang. 

A glint of movement catches his line of sight, and the growl rips from him before he recognises the blur for what it is. 

The redhaired woman, lunging upright again. She devours the distance, the flash of a silver fish between the pebbles of the riverbed. Her pale hands finding the swords hilt and hoisting it skyward.

The Wolf has no doubt she is strong, sensing power in her stride, impressive muscles clear beneath bruised and muddy skin. 

But the sword is cartoonishly large, and he can smell the strange woman's exhaustion as clearly as he smells the freshly spilled blood. 

Yet she wields it like she had been born with a blade in her grip, like it weighs nothing more than the clouds overhead, and she pushes forward. 

Her dress is floor-length, torn and bloodied but every part the warrior queen the legends of his childhood could have ever pieced together. She comes to stand at his flank, breathing hard and slightly unstable on her legs. 

But willing to fight with a complete stranger.

The pair press together, the quartet of strangers circling around them as the starved hawk circles its prey. 

"You will give that back," the largest man's voice is a growl that would envy Quinn's own, the fury a thing that bubbles and boils in his very tone. "Your dirty hands have no right touching royal blessed steal." 

Quinn doesn't need to look at his companion to feel the smile on her lips, the fire in her eyes. 

The way her hands tighten around the hilt, brandishing it with yet more delight. 

One of the smaller men uses the moment of distraction to feint forward again, but Quinn is moving before the stranger can even get close enough to be a threat.

Lips part back, fangs glinting in the moonlight as they meet leather armour, and pierce it. His fangs find flesh, tearing deep into the soft, meet of the man's thigh. 

The scream pierces the night sky, yet more blood filling the Wolf's mouth. 

He tears away again, backing back into the tight, makeshift formation. A slice of the leather garment and gore coming away easily in his grip. 

Fury blossoms again, the sweep of the sword coming close to his neck this time. His movements dragging him out of the way, missing a lethal blow by the skin of his teeth. 

He stumbles forward, gait now an exaggerated limp. 

In the stranger's moment of blinding fury, Quinn takes his opportunity. 

He launches forward, their bodies colliding and the large wolf taking him to ground with little effort. 

Quinn's jaws have clamped around the stranger's neck, the movement beneath him going still in only a matter of heartbeats. 

When he stands up, blood drips down his muzzle, his throat and puddling on the ground.

He launches away from the fresh corpse, landing heavily and turning once more, ears flat to his skull. 

A further scream pierces the night sky, another man lunging for the wolf, axe whirling about him in a blur of steel and wings. 

Quinn dodges, lunging out of the way with a slam of his body. Only to feel steel sinking into his flank when he recoils around, dragging a scream from his own lips. Blood pooling down his aching legs. 

The metal sings as the blade is withdrawn, and the burning pain of his fast healing is all that consumes his thoughts for two split beats. 

Enough that the sword is coming for him again, for his neck with the second blow. 

But the redhead is moving, faster than even the Wolf's preternatural sight can quite track, at least not in his somewhat dazed state. 

Her sword has cleaved through the stranger's throat in one fast, lethal blow. The head tumbling to the floor, the body thudding to its knees then slumping into the dirt only a second later. 

The largest man lunges for them again, his mask gone entirely now - contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury as he goes for the young woman. 

Quinn is in front of her, growing, hackles raised and teeth bared to the moonlight.

For a moment, the stranger looks to try again. 

The remaining companion, however, has enough of his wits remaining to realise how this is going to go.

He catches the larger man by the elbow, halting the momentum clean in its tracks. The larger stranger turning on the smaller, the anger ripping between them for a moment. 

There are no words spoken aloud, but Quinn recognises the communication for what it is.

A compromise. 

And the beat later they are moving, back to the forests. The night and the trees devouring them from sight as they scramble back up the banks.

Retreat.

Quinn watches them go, breathless and still slightly bleeding. His skin slowly stitching itself back together. 

He forces his paws to stay still, to not make chase no matter how fierce the temptation. 

From the tension in the strange, winged woman's form, he can tell she is resisting the very same. 

Her gaze fixes to him, he can see the hundreds of questions running through her mind. She works through them, trying to prioritise before finally her lips part.

But she is interrupted when the young man behind her, still bleeding and his breaths audibly shallow even to normal ears, lets out a soft, broken sound.