Bramblepoint Lethal poison for the system

By the time she was far enough from the Caldera pack that their scent no longer wafted by on errant breezes, Wylla cooled off enough to think straight. "No big deal," she muttered to herself as she ducked mindlessly into a thorny orchard. She weaved her thin body expertly through the bushes and brambles, leaving scraps of ink-tipped silver hair here and there as she went. "Who needs 'em, I'm fine by myself," she mumbled as she came to rest her flank against the knotted trunk of an apple tree, flicking her jet ears forward and refusing to look back for now.

There had to be dozens of packs to choose from that weren't as willing to admit their own weakness, right? And at least they would appreciate her skills, although she would much prefer a pack that took her in and didn't need her to work her ass off for them in return. Not like she would anyway. Wylla's stomach rumbled, reminding her that she didn't really have the luxury of dawdling. It wasn't like she would have turned away from the Caldera pack if the leader had told her it was weak but then offered her a place in it. She was too desperate for that, and desperate enough to think poorly of them for their choice even if there were a hundred other packs she could join.

She pulled in a deep breath, whirled around to face in the direction of the Caldera (which was no longer visible through the trees) and yelled, "Suck it, you cucks!" as if anyone there would hear her or care for her insults. Yeah. That'd show them.