Frostfang lifts her nose when Rifa approaches her. The old wolf knows the body language of orcs as well as she knows the language of her own kin thanks to the orc beside her, and so she calms when the hunter refrains from raising any sort of hand or weapon to either of them.

Korok's pointed ears pin a little closer to his head. He could hardly accept his title if he could not commune with the spirits of such an obviously troubled land.

"Korok," he corrects gently in his gravelly, grumpy undertones. He goes back to trying to figure out the wood at his knees. If Frostfang isn't attacking the orc, then he doesn't believe he needs to trouble himself fretting over her. "You needn't call me anything more or less so long as we are here."