Bearclaw Valley at summit talks you'll hear them speak

Ancelin’s ire grew—whether from the questions or the predator-like gleam in Cygnet’s eyes. Still, the Mayfair remained impassive for the moment, eyes skimming over the tri-colored wolf with quiet acceptance.

It seemed strange how quickly the Bearclaw wolf grew tired of the subject—Merrick and Astara weren’t names he recognized, and so he gave a quiet inclination of his head in acceptance to the dismissal—there was no verdict on the matter, nor a judge or jury.

Oh, but Akavir would certainly play the role of executioner, should the need arise.

“Thanks for your time, Ancelin,” he noted, trying to keep the drawl of his words from dripping with sarcasm. A gentle nudge given to Cygnet’s shoulder would signify their leave, and he begun to lope away—the frown that marred his features all he allowed to reveal on his thoughts of the entire interlude.