The answering look on Nuada's face can be summed up in one small word: disbelief. Pure, unadulterated disbelief morphing into something less neutral, more acidic. In one swift move, he pushes Remus' arm down and moves in, a towering presence even without his six-foot-something bearing down on you with the weight of ancient bloodright. Suffice to say he doesn't like what he's hearing - whispers of captivity, cries of shame and public outrage, the cacophony of once vibrant forests turned into concrete altars for the materialist, commercialist gods of the world.

"The wolf doesn't bow before the hunter. It runs free, it is the hunter. A disease--" he sneers. "Don't mock my intelligence. You've killed very recently. I can smell the death on you. What manner of non-sentient being did you slaughter for food or fun, Remus? Answer me."