time goes slowly when you're only waiting til the sun turns black

The narrow-faced coywolf had to stifle an eyeroll as Tyrr proclaimed he was not a god -- this was outwardly apparent -- a soft scoff rose to her lips but she did not allow it to make it to the surface; instead, she cast him a weaselly look as he deflected the attention back onto her.

She wondered, perhaps idly, who it was that had indoctrinated the dark male with such a prestigious name -- she knew few wolves who boasted such glorious namesakes and none, as far as she was concerned, had yet to live up to their moniker's aspirations. "Who was that?" She asked sweetly, casting a look about her as if what she was about to say next bore great secrecy and reckoning. "I'm Caiaphas. I didn't chose that name either. But my dad, as Norse as he believed he was, was not so presumptuous." She added in somewhat gentle sarcasm, as if it were uncommon for wolves to be named by someone other than themselves. It occurred to her that her name was often misleading -- her family, as a whole, had divested a wide variety of names that were more personal than religion could offer, and to an outsider, her origins were not readily apparent.