Not the most alert fellow in the world, Delmont thought, who had been leaning on the fence behind the smith, watching him. Delmont Crave was a singularly unremarkable man, with dusty brown hair and blue eyes. No one ever really took notice of him, eyes sliding right over him as assumptions were made--drifter, mildly mannered, dully, boring, and uninteresting. He had no scars, no visible weapons, and looked the sort who, at any moment, would pull out a book and begin to read. Which, in fact, he might, if he had brought anything with him. All he had were clothes, though, with him, and a bun from the place across the way. It wasn't his favorite food, he preferred meat, raw meat, but he was hungry and had not the money for anything else.
Besides, he wasn't there for food.
When all the ladies there left because he was working on a pan(which was silly, because real women would appreciate a man that could make useful things for them), Delmont had spoken in his quiet, grave manner, "I smell wolf." Because he did. And it wasn't coming from him--Delmont was a werewolf of sorts--but rather from the man in front of him. He had not met with another wolf in far too long, and to find another one alone such as he was, he was very happy, though he did not show it(but for a small quirk of his lips that was nearly invisible). This man did not seem like the Alpha that Delmont longed for--because he, truly, was a Beta--but any other wolf would be welcome.
He felt bad, a little, when the man burnt himself, but it was his own fault for not smelling or hearing Delmont. At the mans confusion, the little quirk in his lips grew a little. Delmont never truly smiled, because his face was on one that would look good with a grin. And either way, his teeth were just that bit different, just a little more feral. A grin to a wolf is not a sign of happiness. He repeated himself, a little louder, "I smell wolf." He said it a bit slower, perhaps a little accusing. He knew what he smelled.
