Larksong Grotto Sangilak

As a housepet and pup, Diesel would sometimes be held in the lap of her she-owner as the woman watched convoluted soap operas on the TV. The mastiff pup comprehended nothing of the plot, but the intensity of the acting made her watch intently, meaty tail wagging with each twist and dramatic exchange of words.

This was roughly the same experience.

Had anyone watched her as the two wolves argued and fought, they'd have witnessed the full scope of her facial anatomy, intense expressions and full-blown grimaces going one after the other. It was a good thing her kind had no lips, for at a few points she would have vocalised by whistling, although a gruff huff did escape her once or thrice.

After everything had settled (Diesel poked her head out her cover to observe the fight) she waited for the sound of pawsteps to fade away before standing up and stretching, every joint popping from the prolonged stillness. She padded out the thicket to look at what she presumed would be the body of the loser. Intently watching his ribs told her he was still living, and the female nodded to no-one but herself.

"Good fight, buddy." The dog said, passing by the unconscious wolf, not wishing to test her luck by sticking around him.

"You'll get 'im next time."

She trotted on, thinking it was about time to head where the salty winds were coming from, her miserable mood considerably elevated.