Tattle-tale? The silver flameheart rounded on the red girl, eyes dangerously narrow. Joan wasn't telling on Ophelia. She had only come here to collect her because she was trying to save her from getting in any worse trouble, though now she was considering telling on her. And what was so wrong with following the rules and making sure they were upheld? The rules were sometimes the only thing that could protect her from Ophelia.
When the awful, smelly stranger turned away to talk about her as if she weren't there that's when Joan decided she had reached the limits of her restraint—they had already heard her swear, after all, so there wasn't much more to lose. "That's enough!" she announced with a roar, rising up on her back legs to give rude little Flair a shove. But she grossly underestimated how scrappy this girl from another pack was, and even with their paws flapping and the angry yips, Joan had not expected the other girl to escalate the severity of their combat without warning: when she reached out with her paw to smack her again on the face she found her paw inside the red girl's mouth. And the pain she felt was far worse than Ophelia's teeth on her behind. Joan shrieked, reeling back and ripping her paw from the girl's mouth. No blood, but it sure felt like there would be blood.
"I HATE you!" she blurted out, spittle flying from her mouth as she roared at the girl, then rounding on her sister, "I hate you all! You deserve each other." And flying back into the forest, trying not to howl in pain as tears welled up in the corner of her eyes as her injured paw hit the ground beneath her with every step.