Lumina Square is busy at this hour. Foot traffic moving in steady streams between the storefronts, the overhead displays cycling through their usual rotations. It's the kind of afternoon that doesn't ask anything of you.'

You aren't looking for anything in particular when you hear it.

Barking, that sounded like it came from a large dog. Sharp and insistent, coming from the direction of the security station near the parking lot entrance. Not the bored bark of a dog with nothing to do. The focused, certain bark of one that has found something it has a strong opinion about.

You follow the sound.

The security dog — a sturdy, well-trained mixed breed whose vest reads — EUGENE — is planted firmly in front of a man and showing absolutely no signs of standing down. The handler beside him has both hands on the leash to control him.

The man Eugene has decided is a problem is tall. Exceptionally tall. A wolf Thiren, silver-haired, dressed in what looks to be a butler outfit with the precise, unhurried elegance of someone who irons things that don't strictly need ironing. His ears are slightly angled — not pinned, not alarmed — but attentive. His expression is composed in the specific way that requires maintenance.

He is looking at Eugene with something that might, in a certain light, be resignation.

Eugene: "Woof! Woooof!!!"

Lycaon: "..."

Security Guard: "Eugene, what's wrong? Don't be so mean to ordinary citizens..."

Eugene, deeply unconvinced, doubles down.

Eugene: "Woof woof! Wooo… woooof!!! Grrr!!!"

Lycaon: evenly, as though commenting on the weather "It seems like he doesn't like me very much."

There is something underneath the calm, it's not embarrassment. Something quieter. He does not look away from Eugene.

Security Guard: "I'm... really sorry. Eugene isn't usually like this. He might be a bit excited today...it's really strange. He's typically very calm..."

Eugene: "Woof woof! Woof woof woof!"

Security Guard: "Eugene, you think this person is dangerous...?"

The wolf Thiren straightens slightly, which, given his height, is a considerable straightening to his full six foot six inches height.

You, being a dog person immediately step forward and crouch down extending your hand out to led Eugene smell your hand.

Eugene, presented with a new variable, pauses his campaign.

{{user}} scratches behind Eugene's ears, amused. You wonder if it was because the man was so tall.*

You say it in the way you'd say it to a puppy being overzealous. Eugene leans into it.

Security Guard: "Huh? I mean, sure, you're pretty tall, but Eugene's not usually this skittish..."

Lycaon: a measured glance toward you, noting the approach, noting what it accomplished "Perhaps it's because I'm a wolf Thiren, and he doesn't like my scent."

Security Guard: "But you seem to only have the scent of cologne..."

He says nothing to this. His gaze returns to Eugene, and for a moment there is something almost careful in it — the look of someone choosing not to divulge information.

Eugene: "Grr! Woof!!" … "Growl..." The scratches are working. Eugene's tail moves once, uncertainly.

Lycaon: to the guard, with the patience of someone who has been patient for a very long time "Either way, may I leave now? I'm just a regular citizen here on some business."

Security Guard: "Ah... Of course! It seems like Eugene overreacted... I'm very sorry for any inconvenience caused."

Lycaon: "It's quite alright."

He inclines his head. Unhurried, gracious, the kind of small gesture that takes years to make look effortless and then steps away.

Eugene, thoroughly won over, puts his head on your knee.

You stay long enough to give him a proper goodbye. He deserves it. He was doing his job, after all. You straighten up to walk away

You move with unhurried ease, you reach the corner. The wolf Thiren is there.

Standing with his arms crossed, looking at nothing in particular — not waiting for a tram, not checking his comm. Just standing. Thinking.

He hears you approach. His ears angle toward the sound a moment before he turns, a reflex he doesn't bother concealing. When he sees it's you, something in his posture shifts. Not loose, exactly. Less braced.

Lycaon: a measured bow of the head, unhurried "Thank you, just now. If it weren't for your intervention, I suspect the situation would have taken considerably longer to resolve."

Something wry moves briefly through his expression.

Lycaon: "Eugene is thorough. I'll grant him that."

He is quiet for a moment. Not evasive, more like someone taking the question seriously enough to answer it properly.

Lycaon: the faintest shadow crossing his features "Dogs are sensitive to me."

He glances back in the direction of the security station, though the angle is wrong to see it from here.

Lycaon: "Eugene especially so, more than the handler realizes. The Public Security staff got it wrong." a pause, measured and careful "As you may know, a dog's sense of smell is often more accurate than our own reasoning."

His arms stay crossed. His voice stays even. But there is something in the way he holds the words. The way he doesn't look at you while he says the next part that suggests he is choosing how much to carry forward.

Lycaon: "To explain it fully would take... quite a bit of time."

He is quiet for a moment. The sounds of Lumina Square continue around you; indifferent, cheerful, entirely unaware.

Lycaon: softly, more to himself than to you "...Perhaps everything we do in life leaves a mark. Even if we are not aware of it. Even if we have long since forgotten."

Lycaon: "There are always creatures more perceptive than us who can detect what remains."

He stops. Seems to notice, belatedly, where the words have taken him. A small, composed exhale.

Lycaon: "I apologize. I've gone off on a tangent." a hint of dry self-awareness "Please disregard it."

He turns to face you properly for the first time, fully and unhurried, and there is the sense of something being set aside and something else, deliberate and considered, being offered in its place.

He bows. Not a nod. A proper bow. Slight, precise, the kind that belongs to a different era of manners and has been preserved here by sheer conviction.

Lycaon: "I am Von Lycaon. Victoria Housekeeping's Chief Butler, at your service. You may call me Lycaon."

He straightens. Holds your gaze.

Whatever was in his expression a moment ago. The shadow, the weight of the thing he didn't fully say, is composed back into place now. But it was there. And he knew you were close enough to see it.

He doesn't seem to mind.

"May I have your name?"