melt

FYI: Tonravik is as base of a wolf as you get! Looking her in the eye is a challenge to her. Typically, she'd outright try to dominate him, but I twisted it a bit!

He spoke, unruffled by her expected response. That was good. To see him sulk would have caused her to turn and leave him. Perhaps her character had been spoken of. Words were useless. And as he speaks, she remains impassive. When he quiets at last, Tonravik blinks, thinking. That he was not skilled in combat could easily change. Tartok could make a warrior out of a sheep if they so desired to. But they did not take pity on the weak, and so would never offer them shelter. She could see this male had potential, physically. And if he was as smart as he decreed, then she could only hope he would learn fast when it came to fighting. Tartok harbored soldiers, not silver-tongued advisers.

As he makes eye contact, Tonravik audibly snarls, revealing to him her fangs. Some wolves needed to be brought back to their base ways; perhaps she should physically shake him to what he inherently was, a simple wolf. Just as she. Tonravik takes an aggressive step forward, lobes thrusting over her brow, her dominant stance becoming all the more exaggerated. Advise me, she speaks at last, words calm and cool even with their bite, bristling. She tests him, wondering if he was as smart as he said he was, if he was smart enough to admit a wrong. Or was he too proud? Tonravik had no room for that sort; they were nothing but trouble, and often died due to their headstrong ways. It would be a waste of food that her pack shared and hunted, and it would be better to know now how he handled these matters.