Kintla Flatlands But Death Had Caught You in a Bad Mood

‘You walk like a fat caribou!’
 
What the fuck kind of childish fucking bullshit was that? What was he, four months old? Whatever. And he almost thought of leaving, of being the bigger person, of leaving the dumbass where he stood, stone and dust in his eyes and all, but it was what he said after that really fucking pissed him off.
 
‘—Where is your mother? She should teach you better.’
 
“Fuck you.” He snapped, unable to help himself. His mother had taught him fine. He had the teeth marks hidden beneath his fur to fucking prove it, too. Had felt the bite and sting of her teeth against his muzzle and ears enough times to never forget it.
 
He jumped from the ledge to where the other wolf stood. See if they had still had the fucking nerve to talk to him when they were on the same level. And they might have been bigger than him, but like hell was he going to let that stop him.
 
“You don’t fucking know me.” He spat, his stance low and wide, stalking, prowling.
 
His ears rolled back against his head, and his tail lashed behind him. His hackles bristled, all static electricity and nowhere to go.