He was growing tired of the swarthy she-wolf in front of him – her request to show them her hunting abilities had been questioned, and rather than actually prove them, she instead directed the conversation away, insisting instead that her true talents lie with scouting. A grunt escaped him then as he tensed, withholding the energy of backlash he wished to unleash to the fool before him. Borlla herself had seemingly lost patience and his own fiery eyes gleamed as he watched his mate snarl, pacing closer to the foolish she-wolf.


“You do not eat from what little cache we have until you have supplied to it,” he then growled out, ending this conversation now. He would not turn her away – perhaps, instead, she could prove her use as of yet. With an agitated flick of his tail, the male nudged his mate’s flank, his eyes glowering as they regarded Neoma. “Until you learn your place and how to submit to your betters, you can consider yourself the pack’s Lowest. You can earn your way higher among the hierarchy through your merit alone.” Without another word, his gaze would flicker to his mate, softening somewhat as he regarded her.


With a nod of his muzzle, the large male loped forward aggressively, a snarl bubbling from his jaws as he made to grip her snot with his teeth – a calculated maneuver that would harshly remind her of her place and yet not pierce her flesh should he gain hold. The usual acceptance of rubbing his scent upon a welcomed member was forgone – as the pack lowest, she would be at the very bottom, and the members would treat her as seen fit, as well as eating last. With another grunt, the ivory male turned then, his paws sinking through the snow as he made his way back to the pack lands.