The yearling took a defensive stance, his paws well placed underneath him and separated slightly to prepare for impact. He was well grounded, using his core to stay balanced. He grunted deep in his throat, giving one sharp nod. “Run at me, as hard as you can,” he ordered, his voice strong and unwavering. He wanted to get better at taking hits, and there was only one way to do that. 


He needed to build a tolerance to being charged at. Ferreiran was a great equal, since he was around the same size. That would give Vaken the opportunity to learn, gain a resistance to being shoved. The cold air made it easier to handle the exertion of energy too.

“No holding back,” he called, digging his nails into the dirt. He was sure the wolf could knock him off balance-but that was okay. He would keep practising and eventually learn how to steady himself.

As expected, the speckled yearling ate dirt. He didn’t even stumble back and then loose his balance. As soon as his companion and competitor hit him, he was knocked over. Not only caught off guard, but thrown off balance, Vaken fell into the ground with a heavy thud. He didn’t whimper or growl, instead he sighed and struggled back onto his paws. Vaken was taller than Ferreiran, but not longer. While he weighed slightly more, he was mostly leg. That made it easier for him to tip over. “Again,” he grunted, straightening himself up. 


He knew it seemed a bit childish, but it was the only way he was gonna learn. The ambitious boy was stubborn and impossible to manage sometimes. He wanted to keep taking the hits. He was confident in his ability to dodge them, but he didn’t have the capacity to be thrown around. He was embarrassingly frail. He relied too much on his speed to keep him protected. With Ferreiran, he knew it wasn’t a real dangerous battle. He was comfortable enough with the wolf to allow him to do this. “Harder this time.”

As soon as the wolf fell into him, Vaken lost his balance. He had tried to sturdy himself, but the other wolf’s weight was too much. Both wolves went toppling over, thumping into the muddy ground with a bang. Letting out a half growl-whimper, Vaken scrambled out from under his companion angrily. He wasn’t completely mad at his friend, he was more mad at himself for not being able to stay on his feet. 


“Again, again,” he chanted, shaking his fur off as well. He didn’t mind the dirt at all. He was quite pleased, aware that it would keep the flying bugs off his fur. It didn’t smell great, but that was fine. Vaken never smelt that great. He straightened himself out, shifting his feet apart. He swayed for a second, trying to get comfortable with the idea of being body-slammed.

He wanted to be a good fighter, and that meant taking hits and staying on your feet. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Vaken managed to keep himself right side up, but stumbled still. He took a few steps back, trying to keep his core entered and legs straight. It was difficult, but he remained on his feet fairly well. Letting out a grunt of acceptance, he took a second to catch his breath. That was good enough for now. Offering Ferreiran a quizzical glance, the young wolf felt himself furrowing his brows. “Where did you learn to fight?”

Vaken really knew very little about his friend. Since he didn’t speak, there wasn’t a lot of background story for the yearling to go off on. Did Ferreiran ever live in a pack, is that where he learned to fight? Or was he always like Vaken, a struggling lone wolf, who learned to fight for safety? Taking a step towards the sleek wolf, he tried to encourage him to talk by gently touching his shoulder with Vaken’s nose.

Ah, that made sense. The boy gave Ferreiran an understanding nod, his mouth a tight line. He knew what it was like having siblings, especially stronger, tougher ones. He sighed momentarily, his eyes glossing over as he thought about Ledare. The stronger Svart. His father’s prodigal son. The small scrawny wolf gave a snort. “Brothers?” He inquired. “How many?” 


Vaken was lucky to only know of his one sibling. One brother was more than enough. The yearling wouldn’t have known what to do with more siblings. He could barely even handle the one he had. Keeping track of his breathing, the scruffy messy boy softened his body language. He was tired of practicing, despite having the motivation to learn more. It would have to wait.