The Floodlands feel like i don't even know me

Pleasantries, words… they were all wasted on Skellige. For, if there was one accurate thing that this coywolf stranger had stated, it was that he was a savage. He had been bred for war and battle. His pitch pelt had been crafted by the seas and the ocean waves for bloodshed. When the titan saw something that he needed or wanted, he sought to take it. It was simple, though this wolf had attempted to derail the simplicity of his actions with his words. The first set was easy enough to grasp. The stranger seemed to be somewhat displeased by the nature of Skellige’s attempt to pilfer the morsel. His comments, though quick and sharp, did not necessarily fall on deaf ears.
 
“I am not your family,” Skellige interjected with a yellow-fanged grin. His guttural baritone left his dark lips with a possessive and eerie lilt. “And it does not matter if I am capable of catching my own. I’m just as capable of taking yours.” His dark brows lifted somewhat and he peered at the coywolf with a strange intensity. It was not until the coywolf spoke again that the inky brute seemed to find himself derailed of his goal. The vole had been scooped back protectively so that it was not as easily accessible. A foolish move for the smaller wolf to have made. Thought times were tough, Skellige was not averse to fighting another to quell the hunger that dug inside of his gut… no matter the size of the catch.
 
A proposition seemed to be brewing in their conversation. The eldest Cairn knew it only because this smaller hybrid spoke very much like Ksenia. The thought of the pale she-wolf left a taste of bile in the back of his throat and he swallowed heavily.
 
The stranger’s first step seemed to be that he would offer the catch to Skellige without a fight. Smart, thought the pitch-colored brute. His russet gaze caught sight of the vole and he took a step forward to claim the meal as his own. The Warsaw wolf was halted in his tracks, though, by the final words from the slender coywolf male. An offer; the words echoed in his mind like a ringing bell. Darting his gaze upwards to lock with that of the other wolf’s, Skellige peeled his lips over his vile fangs and snorted. Intrigue was one thing, but the silver-ribbed male would not be made a fool by this foreigner. His vision darted from the catch that was tucked behind the agouti male’s legs, to his face.
 
With a heaving sigh and bristling hackles, Skellige took a step forward. “Speak then, cur before I grow tired of your words,” he snapped through salivated teeth. His patience was wearing thin and the hunger that clawed at the inside of his gut was enough for him to risk attacking the stranger in hopes that he might score something more to feast on. He was no stranger to eating the flesh of other hounds.