Redhawk Caldera No one says no to Gaston

The lack of a negative reaction from the other wolf only served as confirmation to the childish Qeorvik that he was correct. His tail wagged further, pleased to know that he could insult this one all he wanted, and he would be none the wiser.

His own grasp of this land’s common language was fairly adept, but because he had preferred the native tongue of his guardians, he had gotten used to speaking more of the foreign language than he had this one. He was just lucky to be young, brandishing a pliable mind that would make him a better speaker with the more wolves he came across here. Bronco, he repeated, dipping his head as well. That wasn’t too difficult. Qeorvik.

The word Brecheliant, however, sounded nearly as foreign as his preferred language. Brecheliant? the boy tilted his head. Your, er, mountain? Your pack? He nodded once confirmed. Your pack is… ah, war pack? It sounded wrong to his ears; he knew it was not the word he was looking for, but it would have to do. They have scar like you?