Dragoncrest Cliffs No to your letters love

When at last Wylla worked up the nerve to return to the cliffs—as much to escape the awkward silence spanning between Mahler and herself as to survey the area—it was to find newly laid scent markers. A discovery that was met with a loud shout of, motherfuckers.

Yeah, no. She'd had quite enough of squatters setting up shop so close to Nova Peak. Truthfully, there was a fair distance between them, but Sagtannet had already been driven from one home by the proximity of a dangerous pack. She would sooner die than give up yet another home, and as these wolves were an unknown entity, she had to assume they were dangerous, too.

She waltzed right on over the scent markers and marched into the trees, stopping only when she found signs of another nearby. This was pretty dangerous, in hindsight, but Wylla was so far beyond caring. She would welcome death if it came for her. Let Mahler reel from that loss and finally, finally, be forced to confront his ego.

(She thought that out of spite, but didn't actually want to die; her guarded posture as she marched in was telling. She had children she loved, after all.)

At first she found only Rosalyn, russet fur through the trees. If it was only her, Wylla would've attacked immediately. But voices sounded, and she knew she couldn't take two wolves. Let them initiate the hostility. She was fast enough. More importantly, she was nimble as a rabbit.

She ensured there was a huge gap between herself and them before calling out, ears pricked and tail arched and head held high, who the fuck are you?