Boartusk Heights Tenderfoot

As soon as he saw the other's banner, Natjuk readily considers tearing across the stream. He lifts one paw and settles it upon the ice. It disintegrates pathetically beneath his weight, prompting retreat. Well...shit. It might support him in the middle. The problem is getting there and staying above the ice.

Watching him sourly, Natjuk behaves without thought, raking his claws through claylike earth, sending pebbles and whatever happens to be swept up behind him. An indisputable act, claiming the very space he stood upon. He stops quickly enough, finding the impulse fading as soon as it arose. He has no interest in claiming this place though it is much to his liking, with its bowed spires resembling tusks. Sadly, he has no following. Even if he did, he is not sure he would make for a good leader, often preoccupied by past events and the dour sentiments correlated to them.

There is a heat that courses like a raging river for an outlet just beneath his winter coat. Natjuk, however, cannot see any reason in opposing the wolf across the creek. To let off some steam at the cost of bloodying himself? Most ill-advised. This pissing match is engaging even though nothing has come of it. Yet. What should he do? Fight him, goad him further, or leave? Natjuk becomes inert, baleful golden eyes locked on his rival.