Porcupine Ridge The hills of Hollywood on fire

To say Farstep was impressed was a gross understatement. He made a stand against the coyote that came for him with murder in her eyes, but his stance faltered and eyes widened when Diane surged forward, a spear fashioned from a ray of sun, and struck the meager canid to the ground. He watched in awe the brief struggle between carnivore and scavenger, his mouth ajar in shock, but when Diane emerged victorious it was without surprise. The coyote hadn't stood a chance, especially the moment that Diane's most primal of instincts—that to kill a competitor—was unlocked. For the first time he saw her not as a strange and skittish creature, but as a worthy wolf and, being of a mature age, he also placed her worth alongside his own. For her valor at the fight of the border and now her show of bravery and support and ferocity, he knew he would stand behind her unequivocally should the time ever come that she sought a place among the leadership.

He pitched his ears forward and began a slow approach, for now ignoring the stinging, sticky mess of blood coating the side of his head. The wound was smaller than it appeared and could be tended to later. His leathery nose twitched and nostrils flared as he drew close to Diane, seeking through the overwhelming stench of coyote blood to find... yes, the slightest hint of sweeter wolf blood. Remembering her outburst from before, he lingered just out of reach, but the way he craned his neck and angled his nose spoke for him: he would lick her wound if she allowed him to.