Black Morass i. wanderlust

the young blood’s arrogance—held in check but still brimming beneath the surface—draws a low rumble from his chest, more amusement than threat. the dominus, scarred and towering, knows better than to expect submission from one such as this, but it doesn’t bother him. not today. perhaps theissor had indeed caught him on a good day.

his laugh is rough, gravelly, and sharp. the motion of his head—a sharp, strong jerk—is less a greeting and more an acknowledgment. he doesn’t need to posture or prove himself. his presence alone commands respect, whether theissor chooses to give it willingly or not.

he tilts his head slightly, his crooked nose catching the faintest flicker of theissor’s scent as his gaze locks firmly onto the other wolf. you fight, boy? he asks, voice a gruff demand. too many women in my domain, he grunts, his voice rough, gravelly, and tinged with irritation. his lips curl back slightly, revealing sharp teeth in a sneer. good for bearing cubs, but not for holding the line. what i need are strong men—warriors who will fight.