The Bracken Woods Weep for yourself, my man

Bracken Sanctuary.

The name was not given in his mother tongue, nor did it stand out to him in any way. Apparently, despite having travelled so far south already, he’d not gone far enough. This male before him likely knew nothing of his family, nor the relative he was curious to find; Arrluk made these assumptions freely and without pause, the chance that his thoughts might be inaccurate never once crossing his mind. That the pack was new and carrying a name formed by the common language was all the evidence he needed to know that he would not sate his curiosities there—but then he heard something about girls and his ears perked, interest shifting; the male was not a Casanova wolf, by any means, but he couldn’t deny the allure of a mass of women unrelated to him. “How many women?” he asked absentmindedly, oblivious to what offense his inquiry might cause; with the other male speaking so freely of his selection, how could he be angered by the northerner’s interest?

Attention was turned back on him and he focused on the male, watching him as he looked past and then at his body. Beneath plush fur muscles tensed, head then raising slightly as his entire posture straightened out under the smaller wolf’s gaze; he spoke and smelled of others, presenting a potential threat to the loner who could not tell just how close to the pack’s territory of choice he was. “I am,” was his answer, simple and to the point. He readied himself immediately after to sprint, ears swiveling every which way that they could, searching for any sounds that meant they were no longer alone.