Porcupine Ridge The hills of Hollywood on fire

Diane moved quickly, even while favoring her left foreleg, but there was an urgency set to her face that would distract from the odd way she was moving. She had come across the trail of the coyote pair a mile back, and was determined to find the source of the smell—unfamiliar with it as she was. The scent was canine, but warped somehow, as different from her own wolfish undercurrent as a crow was to a seagull. So she searched, and even though a worry about her injury trilled in the back of her thoughts, Diane felt confident that any trouble she met would be torpedoed by a calling signal for her packmates.

Coming from the side, her pace slowed as she observed the scene, watching the speechless Beta male descended in challenge upon a pair of skinny, yipping canids. She had never seen a coyote before, but had heard about them from her Grandfather, and could see a likeness to their species. Maybe not to herself, or her packmates, but to a male she had met in the Vale. The loud, twiggy creatures reminded her of him.

She came to Farstep's side, forming a united front against the chatty louses (who weren't saying very nice or intelligible things), and she stiffened in threat—ears and spine-fur erect, her tail spiked ramrod behind her. If the Beta did not find them welcoming, then she was naturally inclined to agree with him. Her morals evolving strangely.