The stare was a little too long to be comfortable, and MacNair knew that Fenrir would have the advantage, the better position, the better weight, he wouldn't be as tired and, MacNair couldn't help but think, he was possibly not alone in these dark, dank woods. True, they were both at home there, but while MacNair had forced himself into the woods, forced a him shaped hole there, Fenrir fitted easily into the ecosystem. Nature was on the werewolf's side.
"I know, Fenrir. Only the best for you. That's why you'd have to eat me, I'd never make the short-list into your pack." He said gently, picking up the bottle and taking another swig. "I know it's the good stuff. Much better than the stuff I've been getting of late from the barkeep at the Hog's Head. That's Sheep Piss." He reassured, taking a third swallow and once more enjoying the burn down his throat. It was the good stuff, you could tell because no matter how much you drank, the burn was still as eye-watering as ever.
But he shook that thought away, looking back to Fenrir, pausing before he answered. "A particular werewolf? One that got away?" He asked, not sure that he believed one could escape from Fenrir, at least, not with all their limbs.