Alan rolls onto his belly quickly, content to let her win. After a few moments of play he shakes himself back up to long legs, sniffs carefully at Malcolm's hands. It's tough to remember all the things that he's supposed to right now, the bits of it that matter, but:

Soap, sweat, the dirt of minor travel. Dogs. Food nearby, torches, A half dozen other things, none of them lyrium, none the sharp acrid tang he's come to associate with shards of the Fade. Safe enough, then.

He barks once — as wild wolves don't — and turns, looking over his shoulder expectantly to Malcolm. He seems to be waiting, paw raised to step further back into the darkness of the kennels beyond. His ears are pricked sharp; If Malcolm listens too, they'll both hear a faint whine from the path ahead.