When you had been thrown to the wolves, literally, you had to band together and hope your pack was larger than theirs. Alan wasn't weak, nor afraid, but after her initial outburst at Mauja she realized that she had no wish to die a pointless, stupid death just to die instead of losing. There was more shame in falling and deeming the cause lost than in floundering in the ashes for a while before rising stronger than before. And by the stars, they would rise again and wipe Helovia clean of the filth! She had been comfortable being your friendly neighborhood racist, but being ousted had made it a great deal more personal. So. The bitches would suffer, and and only when she was done torturing them would she dispatch them to the deepest level of hell, reserved for ignorant traitors and blood-filth like them. Pah! Surely the Edge would wither and die in their hornless shadows. Scowling, she marched along in d'Artagnan's wake - not close enough to alert him of her presence, but close enough should a pack of wolves decide to overwhelm their involuntary two-horse pack. He was her friend, the one she'd followed from home, the one she had supported by rallying troops for Nyra - now that their brethren was scattered like ashes to the wind, she found herself clinging to him like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to a piece of wood to stay afloat.

When he stopped, she stopped. When he moved, she moved. It was a cat's game of stalking, and the mere play kept her occupied enough to not get bored. When the doctor wanted to, he could be stealthy, and she had no desire to stumble over his red butt and somehow try to explain what she was doing out here in his company. But then he began to stalk someone, so the stalked became the stalker, and the first stalker became some sort of indirect stalker of the new stalked. She wondered if object of stalkation was even proper language, but it would make more sense than 'new stalked'. Then, she grimaced. She was Alan. She didn't give a flying fuck about language. If she wanted to say object of stalkation, she damn well said object of stalkation.

Her friend demanded the object of stalkation's identity, and not seeing the point in lurking any longer, Alan swept past his dark form. Behind her, her tail was held above the ground, the dark tassel nearly sweeping the frosty grass. In the darkness she looked wild, her thick mane a feral tangle around her head. "Hello babe," she offered flippantly to the pretty mare. She was slim, but her muscles didn't seem useless. Some sort of bay or dark chestnut, hard to tell in the monochrome light, with a horn spiraling from her forehead. Its hook seemed quite deadly, and Alan grinned, approving. She was a pretty thing. Alan liked pretty things. "Don't mind the Doctor, he's a bit, ah, stoic. I wonder if he even knows how to have fun..." With a wink she cut off to the right after crossing Lucilla's path, padding down her side like a content cat. Her body looked much the same from this side, too. That was to say... not bad at all.