The Floodlands With a melody from the mourning band

Darcia looked at her, a vicious queen under the stars and standing ankle-deep in dark marsh. He saw all of her, and understood instantly what she was and what she was not. A she-wolf, surely, but she was also the rare breed that knew of her own abilities. She did not fear to approach him because she trusted her own faculties, her own instinct, and she demanded a heavy price for her to offer such capacities to another. Very clearly he knew her to be a creature that needed convincing of her brethren's worth, and more than Darcia felt capable of doing so, he wanted to. She yielded to no wolf that did not show itself in power, and the virile male was eager to take up the challenge.

He, without question, was an ironbred king -- a mortally bound god -- and he would present himself as such at all times, without or without support. With or without his crown. Darcia licked his chops as she waded nearer, his muzzle wrinkling as he at last could taste the scent of others clinging firmly to her thick coat. It was a disappointing thought, that her soul was presently attached elsewhere, but it was not a notion that deterred him in the least. If it was meant that they part ways, it would not be without him first presenting himself to her in his greatest measure.

Darcia mirrored every move she made until they were standing nose to nose. The air crackled around them, and a tension built from the water into the summer night's sky basked them with the scent of something utterly untamed. Her ears did not fold, and her tail did not lower, but they both could not be the most powerful thing here, and Darcia was far too excited to simply let her have such a title. He met her eye then, finding a ring of light within dark irises, and a growling purr vibrated in his throat as he elicited an inviting challenge to her. The stiff wave of his banner stilled very suddenly -- the only precursor to his next action -- and Darcia lunged at her with the intent to grapple and dominate.