Moonspear wilding like that coyote

Liffey. He could remember that. The drop of rank intrigued him but he made no comment; some wolves were proud of their achievements. He was simpler than that, instead preferring to figure who was who from stance alone. Complacency bred stagnation and sometimes, contempt for the more sycophantic of their kin. Though he had his ambitions, they had not been placed there; he had no desire for the likes of high titles. It was still something to note and he did so with a nod, concluding as genuinely as he could: "Sounds as though you have both done well for yourselves." In the end, as long as they all contributed to the pack, it wouldn't matter.

For him, contribution meant survival and safety in the insurance that he wouldn't be ousted in the middle of winter. With all that loomed on the horizon—things he barely knew and understood—it seemed a fragile balance. Dirge was unlikely to admit even to himself that he had a waivering trust in the wolves around him; he had been burned since his birth time and time again. It was in his nature to presume he was tolerated and this interaction was no different.

"So are you satisfied with what you have learned?" he asked next, that same composed smile unfurling to his features. He felt with Rannoch, he could gamble a bit with pointed questions. "I would hope you don't doubt my intentions." Even if he did, Dirge felt he would be aware. He would adapt, nevertheless, and aim for the best.