Trickling down the vines

Alaric felt a surge of a panic that would've made him usually react rudely to the sudden presence of another at his side. It would've made him tense, his instincts telling him to pull away and run. No one is safe, his mind would scream yet the wine seemed make these usual guest appearances void. There wasn't any. However there was a shred of doubt that it was the grapes that had caused this effect. Maybe it was...her. Melisande, she called herself. Her voice soft and concerned. Genuinely concerned. Voice was soothing to him and he choked down any admittance of this to himself. He didn't want to admit just how...safe she seemed make him feel in this vulnerable moment. She could've easily attacked him and he would've been screwed in his current state. Yet, she didn't.

Melisande asked where his home was, to which Alaric let out a defeated sigh. "I have none. A loner, you see." He explained, and allowed himself to relax with her at his side. "I travel a lot." He told her,, taking a moment to let her respond. "Melisande." He uttered, committing it to memory. He could smell he strongly now and could smell a pack upon her pelt. "I take it you're apart of a pack?" He asked for confirmation. It was a hard smell to hide, most pack wolves wore it proudly.