The coast had offered him little more than hurt pride, the eagerness that once controlled him beaten down by fear.

Fear.

It wasn’t something he was familiar with experiencing. Alexander had, long ago, sworn off the emotion and any display of it; to show fear was to show weakness, and to show weakness left him vulnerable. Driven to separate himself by that fear alone, to preserve what image he’d made for himself (not knowing that the image was far different from what he imagined it to be), he ventured off on his own. And the farther he travelled, the more familiar things started to appear; he was returned to the region that housed his origin story, the place where things have continuously, throughout the years, began and ended in the same breath.

With the passing of the seasons that meadow came to life with colour. Had he not traversed the area throughout various points in his life, the numerous hues likely would have made the territory unrecognisable, but such was not the case. The moment he stepped foot into the territory, he was overwhelmed by the familiarity of it all—of knowing that he was nearly home. And so it was not a mere fox that crossed the female’s path that day, but the albino.

And he greeted her with a glare, so typically placed there in his eyes, directed her way. For how dare she, a stranger to the land (as far as he was concerned), cross into an area that he considered part of his own—part of him, even, perhaps.

Alexander had grown accustomed to ridding his sight of strangers with a simple glare and a few coarse words. Yet, the woman did not falter under his gaze, much to his displeasure. Rather, she spoke in some foreign tongue—is this how others feel when he speaks the northern language?—and then introduced herself. The wriggling of her form and the smile that adorned her marred face broght a scowl to his, lips curling back with disgust. What did she hope to gain from exchanging names, and why did she not leave immediately after seeing him? Why did people so often seek to bother him?

More words, only her voice shifted to create questions. His scowl deepened and body stiffened. “The best,” was his reply, tone sharp. His eyes drifted up and down her body, assessing, before he said: “But I doubt it’s hard to be better than you.” He ignored her question regarding his name entirely, deciding it wasn’t important. Whether she knew who he was or not didn’t matter, not when he had no intentions of ever seeing her again.

Drageda.

Of all she said, that name stood out at the forefront of it all. He remembered the name, the place that claimed the life of his dear friend. The place that he could never return to, not even to reclaim her bones. Unbeknownst to him, his lips curled back to reveal his eye teeth, a snarl working its way up through his throat. “Drageda?” he questioned, body more rigid than ever. Boldly, he took a step towards her, tail lashing. “You and those coast wolves have no business being here. Go away now.” To better translate his frustrations, the male let his jaw fall slack for the sole purpose of then snapping his jaws in her direction, his favourite threat to deliver.

“I don’t help anyone, and definitely not your kind,” he declared. They were murderers, after all. Indirectly, at best, though he saw it differently. Had Kendra never discovered them, perhaps she would still be alive today. And had she never died, well... maybe then he wouldn’t feel the way he does, or had done the things he did and ruined himself at the same time.

Coastal no more. Then... was Drageda as a whole no more? Was the land free to walk again, could he bring his friend home? No, no—he would not return to the coast, not now nor ever again, lest times turn desperate. Kendra had made friends there, she had found a way to fit in where he was never meant to be. Perhaps she was meant to live there, to die there, and it was his duty to allow her soul to remain there. Why open his own old wounds when she, he hoped, was happy at last?

Whatever may have become of the pack, the woman was with them no longer. She had, like him, resided with them only momentarily. So, while he would not hold that against her (for now), he did take offense to her claim. “Diaspora? Never heard of it,” he stated. “But...”—his own head rose, as did his hackles and tail, the latter arching stiffly over his back—“I do know that you’re near my home, the valley, which has existed long before whatever the fuck you’re talking about.” Another step was taken towards her, lips curled back and teeth on full display. The muscles in his body tensed, ready to spring into action at any moment, though he held back; Alexander was quick to anger but he was not brutal, so he offered her a chance to admit mistake and obey.

The revelation did not make his actions cease; Alexander was not the type to give a damn about the standings of others. He thought of himself as being above all those around him, and often acted with that belief fueling him. “Do you think I care what your place is?” he asked, a clear rhetorical. “I couldn’t care less. We aren’t on your land, your pack isn’t with you, so whatever you are to them doesn’t matter to me.” And why should it?

“Are your companions here?” The male glanced one way and then the other, as if looking for someone. “No? Their lack of leniency doesn’t matter.” Unless they suddenly appeared out of nowhere with torches and pitchforks grasped in their jaws, Xan couldn’t care less about what they would or would not allow. Hell, even if they were there, there was little evidence to suggest that he’d give a damn even then.

She tried to continue as she was but, now, the albino was no longer willing. “I was going to let you stay, I only wanted you out of my sight,” he announced, somewhat absentmindedly. “But now? I want you gone and you’re going to leave.” The shift that followed was as swift as a a star whilst falling, and his actions mimicked just that; with little to no warning, Alexander lurched forward, intending to ram his body against her own.

Barreling forward as recklessly as he had resulted in zilch. Slowing, he tried to turn himself back around to redirect hid attack, hearing the sound of jaws snapping together as he did so. He stole a glance at the woman—briefly, lasting just long enough to determine his next move—then lunged again, this time intending to snap his jaws down onto her ear.

His teeth managed to snag naught but air, clacking together audibly. Intending to try to grab ahold of any part of her he could reach, he soon realised that the downfall of his head only added to the impact of her own against his throat. Immediately, Alexander lurched back, spluttering and coughing, trying to catch his breath. Struggling to recollect himself, he did not rush towards her this time, waiting instead until she advanced again to make his next move.

Although small, the momentum behind her macilent form created a force to be reckoned with. With the addition of every jagged angle of her body jabbing into his own, he did little to resist her attempts. He braced himself as best he could, moving with her; the impact against his chest knocked the wind out of him. In an attempt to at least challenge her assault, Xan snapped aimlessly in her direction, intending to use her own strategy against her and drive the woman away from him.

The laugh fell on deaf ears as he felt the searing pain of teeth in flesh across his cheek. Alexander snarled, furious now, but at what exactly it was unclear—her or himself. Parting his jaws, he shoved forward and turned his head, intending to clamp onto the side of her neck, behind an ear. On his own face, he felt his fur wetting with blood, a mess to later be cleaned.

There was an audible clack when her muzzle collided with the underside of his jaw, teeth rattling. Before he could react, her teeth were embedded in his own muzzle with active pressure applied. Using his weight against her, Alexander rose and shook his head vigorously, gritting his teeth through the sting of her bite as he tried to shake her off and throw her to the ground.

What came next was a blur—

One moment, he felt himself to be on the road to victory, then the next he was on the ground—beneath the woman. She said something he didn’t understand, although the words were vaguely familiar and tugged at fading memories, and kept her tail held high. Alexander, ashamed by the outcome of the battle, could do little more than snarl. How had she come out, quite literally, on top? Was he that out of practise, that weighed down, that he could no longer best a wolf, even as spindly as this?

As soon as she removed herself, Alexander was up and taking several steps back, putting space between them. His body never relaxed and the snarl that twisted his face into something unrecognisable never left, either. “Fuck off,” he spat in response to her thanks. “Next time, I’ll tear out your throat.” An empty threat, really; he had no intention of ever meeting her again, after all. Without so much as another breath loosed in her direction, the albino turned and took his leave, still simmering, blood boiling.