Bearclaw Valley spirits of the dead

at least he heeds her order. she sneers at him, but does not pounce quite yet. he's grown larger—he's well on his way to surpassing her in height, and he's already nearly as bulky. the time to throw her weight around has perhaps passed. does not eliminate the possibility of psychological torture, sure. . .but there will be no more easy pickings with this one.

fight me, Avicus commands. maybe he can be of use. he certainly can be of use to the pack, if not to her. they need strong warriors now more than ever; it seems counterproductive to the pack for him to sit around in Evien's old den, doing (what appears to her) to be nothing. 

and if he can somehow best her in this spar, perhaps the girl will hold more respect for him. he will still a pudgy bastard child, in her eyes—always will be. but at least he won't be a complete waste of flesh. 

she moves closer, rolling back her shoulders, lifting her chin. fight. the word is clipped, icy. she will not take 'no' for an answer.