The redhead in black leather, jacket open to bare her neck down to a genearous bit of cleavage thrust high by her corest-top, saluted the two werewolves she knew with a lift of the pint and took a sip.  She glanced at the newcomer, vaguely incestuous admiration dancing in her eyes for his muscles, though as they lingered on the mark, she made a sign of respect clear to those fluent in first tongue, little more than instinct to her.<br/><br/>Then she headed over to the pack.  She paused by one of the four dogs and ruffled his hair, then scratched his nose.  "Hey there, Red," she said before perching on a chair next to the young teen.  "How's it going, Marianne?  The old geaser giving you a hard time?"  Bliedd, the soft voiced Welshman, probably had fewer years on the older redhead then the older redhead had on the yonger redhead, Marianne.