Deepwood Weald Against you, a weak defense

The opposing male's growl made Farstep shrink back. His lips pursed tighter, his ears flicked uncertainly back toward his skull, but his step back was only temporary. Like most wolves, Farstep was known for pushing boundaries until a clear deterrent was given. Mees' teeth remained locked behind his lips—the male's warning was vocal only and not accompanied by a warning snap—so he stretched his neck out again and again attempted to gather information. In so doing he placed himself in proximity enough for Mees to do the same. All he wanted was to know where this male came from and whether there was back up. That would tell him which way he should go: backward or forward into the forest.

The other did carry the scent of wolves, but probably not enough to mark him as pack. He was definitely a male and probably younger. Not sexually mature, in other words, and therefore less of a rival by nature. Farstep had nothing worth holding on to, so his view of the other as a competitor was completely diminished now. Mees was only as threatening to him as any lone wolf might be—his strength measured by his will to live and not by his prowess necessarily. Farstep was in a similar situation and understood well that should a fight break out, it would be the most desperate wolf to win it. Neither of them had anything else going for them except their intact lives.

But he didn't want a fight, had nothing to fight over. Injury was death in winter. He lingered, trying to gather more information from the other's scent aura, but his manner of probing the air around Mees was still very hesitant. He still flinched away with each inhalation, and his determination to learn anything was lessened. At the first hint of an impending attack he would be gone. He'd learned what he needed to and there was no sense in remaining, yet he was still pushing the envelope, still gauging the other's reaction speed and temper.