While he had considerable intellect and a nose keen enough to track the colour blue on a bright summer's day, it didn't take a genius to figure out why Bethen's scent had gone from wary cautiousness to outright fear at his appearance. Garrett was only too familiar with that change in attitude; and, while some cynical part of his soul had expected it, he had not expected the little stab of hurt as Bethen screeched for the Templar - a creature most decidedly Garrett's enemy, the lyrium dust he carried about him like a cloud notwithstanding.
It seemed the wolf was out of the bag, so to speak, and he figured he might as well get things over with - his attitude suddenly sober, his yellow eyes fastened onto Aedre as if to a life-rope. Although his fur was bleached white by the moonlight, those eyes still shone like liquid gold. The mark of a shapeshifter, for anyone who knew how to look.
Although he found he still could muster a slow wag of his fluffy tail for Lukaer, for the brothers Ledaal still loved him - possibly because they were still in the dark about his condition - and the wolf leaned his shoulder into Lukaer's leg in wordless gratitude for his support, after a moment he got up and padded forward into the night air, his back to the party, continuing to stare at Aedre. Not because he was scared of what she would do, oh no; the Chasind was probably the only person present who would not balk at what he was about to do. And if Alderic wanted to end him quickly, he would have his chance in the scant heartbeats after the change was complete, before Garrett had a chance to finish orienting himself to his new shape - but he would rather not see the looks of horror on his "friends"' moonlit glade, the thick-furred silhouette of the wolf blurred at the edges, a brief mist rising from the aether around him as his flesh rearranged itself to accomodate two strong legs, lithe shoulders, arms and chest and back covered in hairline scars from a lifetime of living as a wild thing.
When that mist finally cleared and Garrett could be clearly seen once again, it was as a blonde man with wolfish features, his face set in stone, eyes still fastened to Aedre.
The fact that he was entirely naked was nearly inconsequential. Who expected a wolf to wear clothing anyway?
"Her name is Aedre," he said, the first words that any present, the shamaness aside, had heard him speak - his voice low and gravelly, hints of his previous wolf-voice audible in his speech, in the way he growled his consonants. "These are her Wilds, her protectorate. She will not harm any of us." When he turned his face in profile that he could fix the little group of Wardens, Ledaals and other with a single yellow eye, residual aether made it bright as a little moon in his face, almost glowing in the dimness, every fiber of his being expecting for, and ready for, a betrayal. Aedre might spot it - the Ledaals might, for they had traveled with him the longest, and his body language was the same as it had been as a wolf, merely written four feet taller. But the cues were subtle, and he was wound tight as a spring, braced against the fallout.