Otatso Wetlands Break free and leave us in ruins

dimly, as mahler rained hailing blows down upon the would-be protectorate of the mountain realm, as the cur's claws and teeth caught his cheeks and eartip, blood arcing in multiple directions, he knew it was futile. a great part of him, a truly feral and wordless part, wanted to kill this man as he had slain no other, for the simply wholly unhinged glory of the act itself.
but he had seen the steel in wylla's eyes — she continued not to want him, and so ending this pathetic life in the snow would be a true waste.
tooth clacked against tooth; two more wounds opened over his own muzzle as his jaws bit deeper and then lifted away; he paced close with pelt from nap to tailbase standing high and terrible, a snarl burning through his words: "ich werde dich kein drittes mal verschonen!" and no translation would be forthcoming. let the coward take his tone as enough.
he did not back away; he flagged plume over his hips and advanced serpentine, giving the bare bones of a chance to escape now and only now —
wylla had not departed; he had half-expected her to flee while he thrashed his frustrations into the ribcage of the would-be opponent — but she had not. nor had stag, somehow suffused with a broadening strength — wylla, still so near to him, so near, so near.
stag would be a better choice than he. the boy bore a proud stamp of loyalty; he had come away from sagtannet without a thought for his own place in mahler's regard. it stung ever so much, but in a way, the careful boy had grown into a confident man. he would be faithful to wylla for the sake of her own powerful aura; he would cherish her as only one in the first blush of sweetfixed love could do.
thoughts at last. the cold wind here stung the open lacerations over his muzzle, the torn edge of his ear, the slice along one cheek. he passed his tongue across those of these could be reached, and turned toward the silvermore pelt and sunflower eye, most beloved in his heart.
and her scent came to him again, dragging him forward; he paused to cast a hard look in the direction of the first man, or for others that might come; a hardbit survey before he took two last heavy steps and stopped.
"you are the only vone vith whom i vould ever vish to be father again."
that, the end — mahler stood vined to the ground, tortured with budding masculine territoriality vying against the fatherly love he had for the young wolf guarding wylla from him.
every fibre of him etched with want and with sorrow it had come to this; thinking numbed slowly down and down until there was only her.
it did not matter if she had already chosen stag; he would pass beyond ability knowing that their pair had been the last sired, that there had been no arrangements or contracts after she had left him in anger and in pain, that in homage to wylla he had hung up the mantle of pater.