Blackfeather Woods revolution is a self taught language

The newly appointed Dark Master puts himself to work upon the hour of his ascension to the throne, and doesn't stop. He is a man with charge; thrust into a position of great responsibility with no experience to his name. Yet, there was none else to do the job of leading the dark woods to better days. None else had stepped up. Not his addict of a mother, nor the raving lunatic of an uncle. And certainly not the uncle who took his mother against her will. Neither would he allow either of them to lead the pack he called his home when the said, famous unholy trinity were all equally off their rocker. 

The Web carries him towards his mother's cave, and in his jaws he clenches a small rabbit. Prey is scarce in the mere few acres he is confined to, nothing more than hare and duck and mundane sort of creatures. Anything bigger lays beyond the safety net of his home and the surrounding area, and from there, he would need to cross into territory that holds those who wish him dead by the multitudes. It is an unfortunate circumstance of living, however, survivable. It ensures he should never strike fury with others who would only wish to see him fall. He cannot risk it. Yet as he turns the bend, a moment of utter bafflement seems to wash over him as he looks upon, well, himself, only a few feet away. But the identity of exactly who lays before him is something much more curious than the prospect of a duplicate version of himself: the only being alive who looks so extraordinarily alike to himself. The yearling almost staggers back. "Kjalarr?" Vaati voices incredulously, having never expected to ever see the man again. And he had not been broken hearted about it. In fact, he had gotten over his father's sudden disappearance rather quickly. He had barely known the man in the first place, so truthfully, there was nothing to be missed. It was only the sting of Kjalarr's abandonment of his mother that produced a sense of disappointment about him, rather than the personal loss of a father figure. But recalling his father's betrayal strikes a chord within him, a bitter resentment. As the Dark Master, that resentment only continued to sour as seconds went by, the weight of both the reality that his father had knowingly left him for the third time, and the realization that the man had never come before his superior to ask for clemency influencing his reaction to the sudden appearance. "Why... what are you doing here?" His voice hardens, void of that tone of youth that once lived within his words.