The Floodlands With a melody from the mourning band

Fite roll

Their simultaneous action against one another was the first test passed by either party. Neither of them had been caught unaware by the springing of tooth and claw, and both were severely willing to prove to the other that they were better. They spoke in the first language of their kind; the first way that pups learn to communicate and compete. It wasn't a violent game, but it was a natural one, and though neither wolf sought to draw blood, it was not with gentleness that their jaws met and mashed.

Darcia underestimated the girl at first, or more accurately, he overestimated himself against her. The young bitch was staggeringly formidable— an indomitable snow-beast— and the male had to extend himself to best her. But best her he did, and when the scuffle was done, and the rippling waters settled slightly, she had relented to his snarls and forward ears. Darcia was immediately glad for the reprieve of her attacks. The victor shook out his heavy coat, and felt keenly the stings of welts growing large across his chest and legs. He licked his lathery chops and watched her, his tail swaying back and forth contentedly as their adrenaline settled.

With a grunting snort he stepped forward again, this time without threat, and he made to bathe her head and ears in appreciation for the night-skirmish.