Dragoncrest Cliffs We can weep and call it singing

Ephraim's temper was up, which was never a good thing. Most of the time he was a mild-mannered coywolf, equal parts fierce and flighty to complement his dual bloodlines, with a preference for talking things out like a civilized young man. He jived well with Drageda's culture because while they didn't take anyone's guff, they weren't mindlessly violent or primitive either. There was enough discussion and culture about them in spite of their feral protectiveness and strength that their way of life appealed to both sides of him. Usually, he was in balance enough that his temper had a long fuse.

The events of the past two days, however, had tipped the scales toward frustration, throwing Ephraim headlong into his fiercer self. He was unhappy to know that he and Tux had not secured the bay as he thought they would. It had been utterly foolish for him to think it was something they could do, but it didn't rankle any less that they had failed. Their captive calling out to her fellows on the ocean wind had put him in a foul way—Drageda was going to have to do something about that, lest they be caught off guard when the fellows who received that call came, as Ephraim was sure they would. It, along with the storm smashing the coastline, made him paranoid that war would come to them, and this time, he would have to face it straight on.

So he stalked through Drageda's forest near the lake, hackles up and seeking a way to burn out some of his irritation.

@Vercingetorix