Arrow Lake mourntart

in a matter of seconds, he was struck down by the coiling venom of the wizened male. thorn’s hide stung with the leader’s rebuke, and his yellowed gaze flashed in response to the cobra-strike executed by the warhound. 

and yet, no retaliation was made — for handily, the cur had been put in his place, not unlike an elder boxing an impudent child’s ear. there was some fight left in the black brute, but like any intrepid predator, thorn knew when his energies were best conserved.  

his ears laced back as he stepped out from under the heavy breath of the basilisk. 

the message was clear: with newly tempered posture, thorn accepted his defeat and ranking below the male, and made no further bid for dominance.