Flemeth was well-known in the Wilds, and even in the most southerly parts of the Bannorn - but the Brecillian wolves were an insular lot by necessity, and therefore possessed a different set of legends and tales. Garrett had heard of shapeshifters in the Wilds, yes, but a Chasind woman - he was certain she was Chasind now, the cadence of her voice, the undercurrents in her scent and stance - accosting him with a knife for the crime of changing form had been far from what he had expected. He waited till the knife was put away and he was on his feet out of easy reach before answering any of her questions, a lean sideways silhouette in the autumn air, shamelessly naked, as if it had never so much as crossed his mind that undress was not the default state. His golden gaze swept her from feet to crown, assessing her critically, and with an effort of will the ozone prickling in his hair died, forced back across the Veil and into the Fade. So it was not to be a confrontation - at least for the moment.
"I can imagine," he said cautiously, for he supposed that if the situation were reversed and a true-man came tromping into the camp of the pack, they would be greeted in a similar manner. "Shapeshifters don't have a good reputation anywhere." But she had asked him a question, hadn't she? And Garrett was an honest creature, at the very heart of him.
He began to circle when he gave her the answer she sought, however, for while intentional deception was not part of the makeup of his character, neither was sheer idiocy. It did not take the Dalish hunting his people to know that they were hated, perhaps feared. "I'm a werewolf. From the forests east and north of here." He was waiting for some sign of further aggression from the Chasind at that admission, but if she wanted to pick a fight, he was ready for it.