There is an easy economy to her movements, she feels the wolf gnawing on her insides, but it is a press of fang against her throat. The implication of a threat, there is no true fear of her feeling it's fangs slice through her vein and into her flesh. Her poor, weakened, whimpering fylgja is anchored. Muzzled. Bounds as impossible to to be free of as Gleipnir, Coil around her whimpering wolf.

Hair unshaven, messy and blond. Make up thick, glitter reflects in the streetlight. Bare save for strips of clothes, not even the bravest of whore would wear.

She stands, shifting on too tall heels. Men thought themselves big and strong. Hunters, predators, but all around her, the kine around her, turning tricks.

Ffion knew they were not prey.

So, Ffion waits with them. Like the clever hunter, for her prey to come to her.