Emberwood We can live in a world that we design.

Wylla expected to be left alone in the forest; how many nights had she spent before as a loner in total solitude under the canopies? How many days had she intentionally sought out company and found none? She blubbered helplessly and unwisely dropped her guard long enough for Durnehviir to not only approach unheard, but to poke down into the space that Wylla now occupied. The former Grimnismal leader lifted her head, blurry eyes and all, and when the stranger spoke, her reaction was visceral. She snapped her jaws in Durnehviir's direction and flew out from under the log.
Wylla didn't go far; she made a tight turn around Durnehviir's backside and curled instinctively around herself to peer accusingly at the other she-wolf. Though she and Ingram had raided their territory mere days before her encounter with Caiaphas and Kierkegaard, Wylla didn't recognize Durnehviir. She didn't recognize the wolf scent, either; they hadn't spent long enough in Ravensblood's territory to memorize what those wolves smelled like, so none of it registered. The dampened tracks of tears weighed her cheeks down but she glared and blinked away those that lined her eyelids, wrinkling her nose as she begrudgingly said, "sorry."
She didn't have any force at her back to threaten Durnehviir with, so she couldn't afford to be her usual bitchy self. She had to play nice, even if it meant apologizing for overreacting despite never wanting to apologize for anything. She already missed being able to throw her weight around; lone wolves didn't get such opportunities. Still, she wouldn't be Wylla if her tongue didn't come with a sharp tip, and glancing away from the crimson wolf in defeat, she muttered, "shouldn't stick your face in other peoples' faces, though," as a weak defense for her behaviour.