Sun Mote Copse Won't you take my cane and hold my hand

He was a funny kid. He put on this big, bold exterior, but he couldn't even handle the thought of reproduction. She hadn't had a serious conversation with him since she'd given him the talk, and had only really talked to him about basic things- patrolling and hunting. She noticed, then, the scars on his muzzle, having not seen those before. She'd wanted to spill things out at him- but she caught her words and stared at the healing wounds. Those were canine marks- and about the right size for them to have belonged to a wolf. 

He warned her, and she mock-stiffened, as though chastized. Alright. She'd put that on hold. "Can't a mother want to spend time with her son?" She asked, leaning into the guilt. She chuckled. "Spill the beans, Bronco- who done you your new, deadly-cool scars, and how do I sign up to kick their ass into tomorrow?!" She asked, voice filtering from calm into mock rage, before she composed herself again. "Hmm?" She asked, innocently.