Silvertip Mountain Cobra's nest

A flicker of defensiveness crossed his expression as she crossly informed him that he was trespassing; he watched her steadily and did not deny that he was encroaching. He only vaguely remembered the scent of wolves in the area, but had largely disregarded them in favor of food. He glanced to the left, wondering if this female's battalion would soon be following suit to persecute him, and though he feared no wolf in a fight, the wiser choice in his present condition was to stand down.

Still, the thick fur along his spine rippled, conscious of her rigid stance and warning her against physical reprimand. She would regret tangling with him one on one, evident in his dagger-like gaze, but his body was relatively lax compared to hers. He wasn't looking for trouble, contrary to his actions.

"No," the virile wolf deadpanned after a tense pause. "I was tired," he finished flatly, as if that explained everything. He tucked his chin slightly and pressed his round ears forward, anticipating a bad reaction to his minimalism; it happened more than he cared for. "I'll leave -- and I don't need an escort, blue eyes," he scoffed, picking his chin back up and turning his head and neck in preparation to leave.

He paused momentarily, gazing sidelong at the scarred wolf from the corner of one very green eye. He didn't trust her with his back turned, and he also didn't want her to make sure he left. So he half-waited to see if she'd do anything besides just stand there or go her own way -- which were the two options he'd have preferred her to do. He was a man of his word (not that anyone could tell or would immediately trust someone as unsettling as he), so he would indeed leave.

He refused to be treated like a mange-ridden dog, however.