Constance flicked his tail this way and that, contemplating his decision. After meeting that guy just yesterday, he felt like it was probably worth a shot to try and join up with these assholes. Not that he actually thought they were assholes. It was an expression, dammit! He huffed at the non-existent contrarian who had been taken aback when he had called the wolves of this pack assholes. Ah, those little inner monologues were often what kept him going these days. Since he'd been on his own for the past month (or was it two months?) his imaginary conversations had gotten more and more colorful. It was probably a good thing, in all likelihood, because he would have gone mad without somebody to talk to.
The yearling sniffed idly at the ground (like he often tended to do), and wondered how long it would be before somebody marched over and told him to get off their lawn. It couldn't be too much longer, as he'd been lingering for at least fifteen minutes now. Every pack he'd ever encountered in the past was quick to let him know that he was being a dick by fiddle-farting around so close to their precious land. Then they'd go through the normal process of him submitting while they lorded their pack status over his head. It was all part of the process, although the last few times he'd attempted this whole "joining" thing, he'd been rejected. "We don't have enough food, scram!" "Not another male; too much competition!" "Your face is ugly, get away!" It was always something or another.