Dragoncrest Cliffs Clothe yourself with all the rough alikes

Assuming Caiaphas has left, let me know if I'm wrong and I can change.

Neither of the she-wolves acknowledged him, yet he studied them quietly. He glared at the masked coywolf, finding the mere sight of her alone chilled him to his marrow. Dacio despised her for all of the misfortune she'd rained down on Dragoncrest Cliffs, hated her and her wicked dogs for having saw fit to set up camp so close to what had once been his own.

And then to the fire-tempered yearling, despite the initial offense that she'd roused upon announcing her claim on the coast, had replaced his burning anger with some quiet admiration. She was a tiny thing, sleek and feminine, though she was far from delicate. Her sharp tongue was evidence enough of that, and Dacio pricked a dark lobe forward in eagerness to hear what colourful response she might have to Caiaphas' threat.

He stepped forward with a low rumble, sweeping to the young wolfess' flank to support her. While she likely did not wish for any back-up, he felt she'd benefit from it. It appeared to Dacio that she had not experienced Caiaphas' wrath; her promises, despite making his blood boil, were far from empty. He knew from experience what Rusalka could be capable of, enough to make him want to strive for more.

Remaining silent and steadfast, he fixed Blackhead with a fierce glare once more, voicelessly suggesting that she hurry along. When at last she made to depart, the young viper's muscles slackened somewhat, though the edge remained. "Branwoda," he muttered softly to himself, steeling himself against the desire to pursue her retreating form.