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There were a hundred different reasons Veti wanted to wrap her arms around the Reaper and hug her to her so tightly at that moment. She knew Daisy had judged Siya, and found her wanting - even if the werewolf understood intuitively that judgment wasn't entirely fair. Veti knew Daisy was defensively sniping off at the self-proclaimed necromancer too, but she really couldn't help she found it just a [i]little[/i] funny - because "catty-Daisy" was actually just "naturally-amusing-Daisy" to the werewolf. Veti loved Daisy's surety. Her courage. Her stubborn determination.

And besides, the werewolf wasn't entirely sure how in the hell anyone could choose Captain Shang over Flynn Rider, but when they got back she'd arrange a damn Disney marathon and show her the error of her ways. It'd be a pleasure.

It didn't really dawn on Veti, the fact she was already thinking such a time even possible somehow made her brighter, that smile far wider and easier and true. "Of [i]course[/i] you are Daisy. Never doubted that for a minute," the werewolf whispered in Daisy's ear, giving in to that sudden urge, wrapping one strong, muscular, leather-clad arm around the Reaper's shoulders, pulling her close and kissing the top of her candy pink head with a grin. 

Oh, she'd heard Atticus' words about the Lupus Naturae just fine, felt a twinge of ache from all the old hurts, all the old sleights and the rounding rejection of her own kind that had weighed so heavy on her thoughts all the years since she'd been turned. And her heart howled in fury, that anyone would dare - [i]dare[/i] - so much as think to raise a hand [claw, talon, tentacle, whatever... ] against Reginald Hoyle. He'd confided in her, the sad tale of what had happened to his clan, the Teachglach Mac Tíre. But she would join him, the only other wolf she'd ever call [i]packmate,[/i] or even [i]friend[/i], very, [i]very[/i] soon.

There was a goddess waiting on them at the moment though, and Veti had absolutely no idea if Isis was going to toss them some wings of their own, or just [i]*fwoosh*[/i] them away in a whirlwind, or just instantly pop them near whatever might remain of that legendary Library - but one thing she did know? This sure the hell wasn't a shade-gate, and that was really all the encouragement to a bit of adventure she needed.

[i]"Race you to the goddess. If I beat you, it's 'Tangled' first when we get back. You - or even Artie? Fine, 'Mulan' it is... "[/i] Veti whispered, all the old reservations she'd ever had about the gift Max had given her shed in an instant of pure joy, buoyed by hope. As Atticus opened the wind-tunnel portal to their boss, she turned to catch Siya's eyes, giving her dear friend a wink, and then blew her a kiss.

And then Veti cut her loose, the wolf inside. The lengths of crimson hair wrapped about her face, her neck, into a thick, muscular ruff. If she stood to her full height on her back claws, the werewolf would have easily cleared eight feet in height. Covered from the tip of her long, black-lipped, ivory fang-filled maw to end of her magnificent tail in fur the color of blood, the smile she gave the Reaper now would have sent even the sturdiest human to wetting himself.

But Daisy was made of far sterner stuff - whatever the hell that might actually be - and the wolf dropped to all fours, the wickedly curved, ebony tipped claws digging into the ancient, hallowed lands that her kind roamed centuries ago. Glowing amber eyes lit with amusement, almost as an afterthought, her gaze turned toward the necromancer. The werewolf's voice was low, thick and rumbling growl through those impossibly long teeth. [b][i]"Ekki vera svo ljótan, lítill álfur. Láta forn kóngafólk án skilningi landamæri sefa meiða tilfinningar þínar. Hann er frekar sætur, þú veist ... "*[/i][/b]

And with that she bolted for Isis, determined to - at the very least - outrun the hellhound, the tip of her lustrous, long tail brushing his snout like a naughty child's taunt. Past the golem and the demonspawn, dear Nestor whose very presence endlessly reassured her all was well - even if his demoness was feeling a touch premenstrual. Past the Rusalka and the unspeakably good-looking pharoah-type, toward the Russian wight already joining the outstretched wings of a goddess.

(( [i]*Do not be so grim, little elf. Let the ancient royalty with no sense of boundaries soothe your hurt feelings. He is rather cute, you know... [/i]))