A familiar scent, in the brackish and whirling stench of the swamp; Garrett, his nose twitching as he picked apart the myriad trails of smell, the odor of prey on game trails and predators and rotting vegetation covering over something that tickeld at his memory, eventually hit upon what he had been looking for. Scent of magic, spices, wisdom come too early to a young frame, defiance and good damp soil, the smell of the Chasind shamaness he had met a winter and a lifetime ago. Well. That she was here, in the Wilds, was not a surprise - that came when he heard her voice pitched through the mists, heard and smelled her confrontation with Bethen not far off. So their paths had crossed in the shadows, before Garrett had found her, else he might have been able to head Aedre off, to steer Bethen clear.
Ah, well. He preferred it this way, honestly. Open confrontation was the way of his people, once the advantage of surprise had been lost.
He flicked his ears as he walked, listening as the meeting escalated. Aedre, rightly suspicious, wanted Bethen gone, but Bethen was both brave and afraid, standing her ground despite the fear rolling off of her scent like breakers at the edge of the sea. So, being the wolf that he was, Garrett took matters into his own hands - paws - appendages, and padded out of the shadows and mists to stand precisely between the shaman and the Tower mage, a white-furred ghost in the night with golden eyes. When he had reached that point exactly halfway between the pair of women, he sat down neatly, flipped his tail over his toes, and cocked his head, making a "hrrmmmmm?" sound deep in his throat at Aedre.
Garrett's tongue lolled out in an all-too-familiar canine expression of mirth. Come now, Aedre. You know that wolf. And if he's here, then the woman he's protecting-slash-claiming as his packmate can't be all bad, can she?