A tentative smile returned, even as her hand flinches out, reflexively, to the dog’s collar. It rumbles low, but doesn’t make a further move towards Garahel.

"Ah. Preudame," A bloody awful pun, but that had always been Courwin’s style. "I believe."

Disinclined as she is to name most beasts, Wren can’t deny the necessity of it when working with war hounds. These are not the semi-feral curs of her youth.

"I had — ah — been hoping to ask you of her." Her fingers slip free once she’s certain the older dog won’t lunge, a short gesture to Garahel. "I have never heard how the two of you were acquainted."