Irritated.

That is how I would describe my mood today, simply annoyed at life and all of her sour lemons. I expected better, but still I am just some no account loner doing nothing. No, not nothing. I have been very busy since Mother's defeat. My irritability comes from my lack of knowledge, lack of tactics. Things Mother should have been able to teach me by now. Yes, I could kill, hunt, maim, murder. But, in all those things, I had help. I would be helpless in a fight if it were one on one, I am not yet fully grown, and I have to constantly remind myself of such.

Some say patience is the key, I say bullocks. Training and maturity are key. I must be better, faster, smarter, stronger than my foes. If I am to topple the forming dynasty, I must be ready to take on the old alphas or their weak minded offspring. I have to be infamous enough to deter any future uprising. I simply have to be strong enough to face the brave ones looking to make a name for themselves. It won't just be about me, just because I wear a crown does not mean I am the only beast in the land. I will have subjects to protect and look after, a whole pack of wolves to feed, a dynasty of my own to grow. They needed stability on the throne, a wolf with equal measures of cruelty and kindness. A wolf who could be sane and level headed, and a wolf who could be cold-hearted and ruthless. These wolves playing their game of thrones, they had no idea. Perhaps, the mountain queen and the desert king know what they are doing, they had been born in the role. The beach master as well, seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. Strength was respect, and Mother had seemed to have lost all of hers.

I would not fall to the same fate, I was not doomed to repeat the errors of my parents. I would not be called weak, nor would any dare oppose my rule. For now, I needed a name for myself. Killing has become boring. Snatching pups from their dens while their mothers were away was too easy now. I could be the youngest wolf to be hunted, I could be the most villainous pre-teen in the history of Moladion. For that to happen, I required two things. A victim, and a survivor. I needed someone to get the story out, but it couldn't be anyone who could bring an entire pack out on a wolf hunt like Malignus had done. I am too young to take that risk on my own. I was thinking too hard about this, but hard work required hard thought.

It wasn't long before someone's voice is heard above the cacophony of my thoughts, and obsidian towers perk higher on my head as black, russet trimmed paws halt any motion. I am silent as the grave as I listen once more, trying to pinpoint where the obviously female voice stuck out in my mind. I smirk, a knowing look as my dazzling green eyes sparkle in the early afternoon sunlight. Tri-colored frame moves once more, my face instantly falling from delighted to depressed. Seriously, it looked as though someone had killed my puppy. With my head down and my tail listless behind me, I move toward the mesmerizing voice, though I had no clue if she was alone or with someone, it made no difference.

Upon seeing the chocolate girl, my ears flatten to press against my dark skull. White-lined eyes peering about as though I were looking for someone. "Mama!" I holler out, ever the actress, the distress clear in my voice and the sadness evident on my frame. Maybe this girl would help a two year old looking for her mother, maybe not. I could never be certain of the actions of others, and so I left this part up to her. Perhaps, I would be getting the story teller I needed for my reputation. Webs must be spun before the Widow can catch her victim, and she seemed like the type of fly to come to honey rather than vinegar.