Black Morass i lost myself into the night

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The flame kissed woman allows him his assessment but she is not submissive. She is not like August. Her posture is rigid, her tail flags over her back. Though the extent of her rank is unknown to him as Comhlach the feral Commander settles that she is higher than him. She falls as dominant in his own personal hierarchy. She has backbone to match those scars she bears and Declan appreciates her ability to assert herself as it helps him to categorize her much easier in his mind. The feral Cathán might fancy himself at the very top of his personal and rigid hierarchy but he is not made to lead. Though he is far from dim-witted he is feral, and utterly unsociable. If not for Conan serving as his translator, serving as the buffer between Declan and the world he acknowledges that he might be in a much worse shape. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. In Declan’s opinion, many wolves spent too much energy on talking, on their want to please everyone so they change how they might instinctively act to cater. Regardless, Declan is meant to be muscle, to enforce the laws of The Family …with any means necessary. Enforcing was not about being gentle. Someone clearly needed to do it, he thinks bitterly — as her low warning growl reverberates through his ears — for already two wolves have walked all over Ceannasach and for the severity of their crimes lead nice, perfect little lives with their little bastards as disgraced while the Family sacrificed for them, while the Family provided for them.

When he pulls back, Declan is content by what her scent as yielded to him: scars aside she appears physically healthy as well. There are questions he desires the answers to, questions that he know he will not put into verbal words. If it was not an answer he could discern from words left unspoken, or from the physical spectrum than it usually fell to Conan to decipher him and try to pry for the answers for him. Declan has left Conan and August behind with the group, though, to scout out their new hunting grounds, to tracks the herds of ungulates that frequent them, to test their limits, how far they could be possessive of. He tracked better alone, without the distraction of his brother’s constant preening and his constant need to make sure his little mouse still followed. He did not think she would run away as she had followed him (and his brother) of her own free will but Declan kept her close unsure if it is because in a way that near borderlines obsession he is protective of her or because her submissive inclination feeds his ego he cannot say, hasn’t looked that deeply into.

He lets out a low, satisfied grunt — one of his few, default sounds — and lingers. He can almost hear Conan in his head telling him that to just leave to be on his way would be very rude. Thus he stays: because he wants to know how she has gotten those scars, how she is new but ranked so high. Questions he will never ask, but hopes that he can puzzle out if he stares at her long enough, knowing all the while in some deep, dark part of his mind that staring at her (avoiding her eyes, of course) will not warrant the answers he seeks. It never does.

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