She had the fleeting thought that maybe Wylla meant something bad in another language, but as quickly as it came, it was gone. Rysk pulled her attention back too quickly to latch onto the notion; he asked what happened and she snorted. "Lots," she said noncommittally, taking a moment to settle herself more comfortably on the shoreline. Once her belly was against the cool stones and her paws were tucked under her, she shared, "I led a pack on the coast not long ago.
We weren't the welcoming sort," she explained, "most of the wolves there were family or family-of-family. I was elected leader by my brothers and I did a lot to keep it safe for them and their kin. For whatever reason, none of them respected me as leader, not even from the first." She sighed and licked her lips. "Two wolves bred without permission. I told the male half there'd be consequences for that. He said he would accept them, but when the time came for him to do so, he spat in my face and refused my authority. His mate also thinks she's queen of the world despite contributing nothing and threatened me, so I told her she could lead. See how it feels to be so disrespected."
"There were others before them, wolves whose names don't even matter, that's how relevant they were, but similar story, no respect for authority. They meant nothing to me," she heaved a sigh, "but then I found out my own brother didn't respect me enough to ask before he also fathered a litter without permission, even though he knew the answer would have been yes." She frowned, licked her lips, and said, "I left that night. Even I know when I'm not wanted somewhere." Finally, she pointed out, "my brother and I tried to pull a prank on Durnehviir and Constantine when we were rival packs. They still hold a grudge. I'm not even sure how safe I am here, but it's the only place I have."
Propping herself up on her elbows and hoping he wouldn't run right back to their leaders with her misgivings, Wylla twisted to face the aptly named Rysk and asked, "what's your story? You don't have to share, but now you know mine, so seems right to ask."
Inside, Wylla braced herself for the usual response—that she'd been entitled, somehow, or an assertion that others were just somehow allowed to oppose their leaders' positions over and over and over. She expected to be reprimanded for commenting on Constantine and Durnehviir, and whether the two would actually uphold their duties as leaders to protect her, if it came to it. She expected to be talked down to for even having the opinion that she might not be safe in Swiftcurrent Creek—that she was bound to become a scapegoat the second things went south.
Instead, Rysk related to her and shared his own story, which she listened to with thoughts churning. His plight was even worse than hers. In a way, Wylla's misery was self-made—she could have physically asserted herself, or refused to give up her position to the first haughty wolf that threatened her, or she could have just killed those stupid, worthless mongrel pups—but Rysk's was true heartbreak. Lycaon had wronged Wylla by also breeding without considering her authority, but he had never risen against her and cast her out of her home. She'd done that to herself.
Damn. That sucked.
"Your brother sounds like a jackass," she commented, voice quiet, as she returned from her journey through her mind. "You didn't deserve that. Bastards are still wolves with feelings." She was, technically, also an unsanctioned bastard. She didn't really identify that way, but Wylla could understand, in her own way. "He doesn't deserve to have a brother who calls him best friend if that's how he treated you," she opined.