Semyon had watched the young woman's scrying with only mild interest, still wondering if trying to kill a beast like Fenrir was the only option. He pain only minor attention to Tamarind's introductions for the sake of Gabriel, as it seemed she needed no assistance. 

He did turn to pay greater attention, when Tamarind mentioned the Young Reaper's name, and again when she mentioned the young scrying woman. 

Semyon then spun on his heel, and paid quite a bit more attention to the sudden appearance of an absurdly monstrous, towering furred form. It stood there, unmoving within a moment of absolute silence, a single thought rising in the Wight's mind.

Dead. He was about to be very, very dead.

[i]"SEMYON!"[/i]

 The cry snapped the old soldier's mind back into focus, body moving before his thoughts had the chance to catch up. He was beside Tamarind before the last word of her call had faded. One hand held out his Stetchkin and a pair of spare magazines for her to take, eyes focusing in on a target before he even realized what he was looking for.

"Here." He tensed as Tamarind took the pistol and ammo from him, offering her only a curt nod and short words to tell her his next move. "Like Alexandria."

Then he was off.

As when he had chased after the white werewolf before, Semyon surged across the ground with impressive speed. Unlike before, however, his target was stationary, and it was mere instants before his leading foot struck the front of the great wolf's paw. The Wight didn't slow, didn't pause, rushing [i]up[/i] the beast on all fours. Gloved hands snagged upon its fur and hauled upwards, while booted feet kicked and slammed against its flesh for traction. Like a tic, Semyon scaled the wolf with almost natural ease. Yet he didn't need to search for the right place to sink his fangs, the proper target having long been clear in his mind.

God-beast or no, eyes were still vulnerable.

Fenris' sheer size proved the true obstacle, no matter how quickly or surely Semyon moved. It might only take moments, or just a minute, but that was still time. Time for the beast to take action, or for his comrades to find plans of their own.

Just moments, or a minute, either way Semyon didn't slow. The head, the face, the eyes were his target, and the wight continued to climb towards his goal.