But that thought always boomeranged right back – he would have pups because he needed progeny. While he'd never raise his father's pack from the ashes it'd fallen into while his mother burned Ered to the ground, he never doubted he'd found his own empire. A wolf couldn't have a dynasty if he didn't have sons or daughters carrying his name beyond his own mortal life. This was, you see, how a dragon lived through the ages, how a wolf defeated simple laws like life and death with his own two paws. He would live on, through the spirit and the deeds of the children baring his name and his claws.
Kjors huffed as he drew towards the boundaries of the fruit trees, slowing to a halt as he gazed across the open field. Unfortunately, this would require him to wait another winter, survive another full turn of the earth, to have his chance at passing his fine qualities on to the next generation. It was so close, and just out of reach.
With a grumble, the wolf pressed onward again, pacing the border of the orcharge. He only halted when he found the remains of a scavenged carcass. It was fairly small – a groundhog, perhaps, killed and consumed by coyotes. The bones had been left, however, and finding himself brimming with irritation, the dark male settled himself down and pulled a femur into his mouth, gnawing and mumbling under his breath until he heard the sound of shifting grass nearby. "What d'ya wan'?"