It was a pity no one thought to ask Garrett what he thought of the Tower, and of the Templars who corralled the mages there; his father especially had had some choice words on the subject when Garrett had been little more than a puppy, words that came back to haunt him when the alpha male's heir had turned out to be a mage in his own right. Still, the wolf-turned-man-turned-wolf kept his ears and eyes open, and though his nose was constantly assaulted with the smells associated with a true-man place of dwelling, he sorted through them dutifully, picking out the odd things rather than being overwhelmed by the whole.
The Templar (lyrium metal oil piety like fire) and the Chantry lay-sister (books sweat cinnamon) did not seem to pay too much attention to Bethen, though the mage seemed to expect it with every muscle of her petite frame, and Garrett was a bit uneasy to see that they did not regard him as altogether odd, either. That was unusual, and his hackles would have prickled had Bethen not sunk her fingers into his fur with the expertise of a woman who had spent as much of her newfound free time as possible petting the furry members of the group. Garrett couldn't quite forget his worries, but he leaned into the touch anyway, shamelessly enjoying her hands on his skull while he had the chance.
Let her think he had Mabari in his heritage; hopefully he would be able to dispel such an illusion without her running away screaming, seeing as she was familiar with magic and all, and Lissa had been merely a farmer's daughter. Food for thought, later. When she addressed him as she might an equal, he perked his ears (or tried to, when she found that sweet spot that felt wonderful, and was it any wonder men loved having their scalps rubbed as much as dogs did?) and paid attention, yellow eyes uncannily intelligent. He could smell the nerves on her, the fact that she didn't want to go on alone - at least, unconsciously she didn't, though the little healer might not want to admit such a fact - and though a part of him couldn't help laughing at her last statement, he hid it well. Better at hiding than I am? You have no idea. He'd honestly expected the mages of the group to out him for what he truly was, since the Templar had yet to, but if Bethen was convinced he was nothing more than an overgrown mongrel, perhaps his opinion needed reevaluating.
He made a half-whine, half-growl noise in his throat and sat down at her side, as though she would have better luck getting rid of him by sending him off with a crowbar. He was curious, after all! He had never been inside a human Chantry - he was brave, but not stupid, since in the Bannorn people still told the tale of Dane and the Werewolf, and a yellow-eyed man in a Chantry might draw attention and conclusions he didn't need to deal with. Maybe he could puppy-face convince Bethen into letting him tag along, though. After all, she needed a protector, and he was seventeen stone of win and awesome.