Whitefish River You got to make me

Angry and dense. Belharra couldn't say that was a new combination to witness. To Mal's credit, maybe he was too annoyed to catch the joke. Or maybe her accent was too thick to get the point across. Either way, Belharra was only a smidgeon deflated to learn her joke had gone WHOOSHING over the guy's head. Ah well. We'll get him some other way.

Mal's criticisms were accepted with an even look and a shrug. He wasn't wrong, but he wasn't in the right either. His pack wasn't official, plain and simple. Anyone with a nose knew the difference between squatters residing and an established pack's strong scent, which was often interwoven with the scents of many. Hence, strong.

Belharra couldn't fault him for protecting his home, but she could fault him for possessiveness over an entire swath of territory when he equivocally had the same squattin' rights she did. "Borders only count when you have an established pack, sugar." She responded in a tone free of annoyance. He was trying, she could give him that. Keep at 'em, slugger. "How long ye been trying to carve a pack out of that little piece o' land?" Belharra could imagine given his bedside manner that it had been some time. If he was anywhere near as friendly to others as he was to her (heh), one could easily understand the reason he was having trouble collecting a following. So far she had only seen him mostly be not-nice.