Johannes follows Horst's gesture and narrows his blue eyes for a moment. Then he scowls. "Those are wolves, all right," he affirms, but chooses not to elaborate on what makes him so certain. The irritated familiarity in his voice, however, seems to indicate that this is not the first time in his life he's encountered such. This is true. He's a well-traveled man for his age and he travels frequently alone. The occasional unwanted encounter with local fauna is an inevitability.

"Much larger than the usual stock," he observes with folded arms and squints up at the moon to check that it's not in phase. It's a half-moon, waning. "Not werewolves. At least there's that."

He stares at the large shadows a bit longer from the rooftop. His thoughts have taken him away from his unhappiness with the temperature, and soon enough his unpleasant memories of unfriendly animals are fading, too, replaced by another thought process. In fact, the smile that crosses his face is positively canine itself. Horst should know his brother well enough that that expression likely bodes ill for someone, somewhere--or something.

"Horst," he addresses him by name, tilting his head to one side. "How long has it been since you've been out hunting?"