Fox's Glade Get nothing done

There was something absolutely terrifying about the stranger's gaze. Charles just stared back at him, his face not giving away his fear though the slightest tremble in his nostrils might, to the keen eye. Eventually, all he got was that he should be nicer. Charles didn't think he was un-nice, but neither did he think he was very nice. He didn't really see the benefit to niceness. What did it earn you? Certainly not love or respect, certainly not more food or a spot to drink at the river. No, being nice earned you nothing. But neither did being un-nice, so Charles liked to think of himself as neither of those things.

Before Charles could really come up with an answer to that, or explain his philosophy around being nice -- well, he wasn't sure he would've, anyway; he'd never been very chatty -- the other wolf leaned closer and licked his lips. The double entendre was lost on Charles, and he blinked owlishly. No. He vaguely remembered a story, once, on a stray good evening with his mother and maybe his aunt, where there'd been stories about that sort of thing. He vaguely remembered hearing stories from others in the pack, told to other pups while he listened at the frays. But... That's just stories. He licked his lips, for all his bravery still subconsciously showing signs of submission -- he wasn't even aware that he was doing it. Charles took a step backwards, also without really realising what he was doing, while staring the stranger dead in the eye still.