Kreios's eyes narrowed at the seeming repulsion from the Argonian, and only then did he realize he'd perhaps done too well with his disguise. It was still comforting to know he wasn't as rusty as he originally thought. Those ideas rushed from his mind in a brief second, though; as the wind drifted a peculiar scent to his nostrils. They flared in warning, inhaling deeply before a soft growl issued beneath his breath. He could smell fur beneath leather, the strange tinge of waning blood; but most important, he smelt death. It was a smell he was familiar with; and he found himself brought back to that night as a woman in distinctive armor appeared before the two of them.<br/><br/>The Argonian seemed to take it quite well, seeming to believe the garb was worthy of song and legend. All he seen was a visage of the only figure around when his precious Alga was found dead. That grey material that blurred before one's eyes was unmistakable, and even his canny senses had trouble detecting it. The sight caused the yellow flecks in his irises to burn with primal rage, filling out to be more canine like veins shifting beneath the concealment of his cowl. He felt his blood pumping then, burning the intoxication from his system in a forced bout that caused his temple to throb with an early hangover. It became more evident as she regarded him, which had the companion stepping back with a fluid grace unbefitting the stumbled gait he'd adopted before.<br/><br/><strong>"I'm not lost."</strong>The companion mentioned to the eerily dressed woman, his tone even now, lacking the thicker brogue he'd played at just moments before. She seemed friendly enough, and in truth Kreios would have normally taken it as just that. Despite himself, he stared at her like a stalking daedra; as if she was evil. The Argonian's speech hadn't gone unnoticed as the bard grasped the demon's hand. He didn't respond to it yet;  just simply reacted to the injured man's words. His hand lifted from the cloak, with a ball of healing energy forming in his palm. It was the only magic The Werewolf practiced, particularly for it's use on the field of battle. Once the ball formed, he flicked his wrist, sending the magical energies to wash across the bard in a flourish.<br/><br/>Wounds would be mended, but not to the full extent; he hadn't put that much energy into it. It would mend all minor bruises, and reduce anything verging on lethal to a more minor injury. The energy wisped from his fingers at that point, tough; leaving the hand empty once more. Luckily for Kreios the Argonian was distracting what smelled like a Kahjiit during his spell, so neither of them were in a position to be perceptive of the distinctive armor beneath his cloak. He was too distracted to wory about that, however. Hell he was too distracted to give the contract much consideration at this point.<br/><br/>That only lasted a few seconds, though. The companions mind quickly returned to the task at hand. There was only a week before the full moon's rise, which left him with little time to clear this whole mess up.<strong>"You're welcome."</strong>He told the Argonian, and then walked past the two of them as he strode for the wall nearby. He leaned back against it, just a few feet away from the two of them as he watched for another signal. Vilkas was either fucking with him at this point, or the bard he'd ran into wasn't the source. Frustration was apparent beneath the cowl, even as his predatory gaze continued to wash over the pair. Was he missing something?