Tychon’s indifferent expression wrinkled into distaste at who was coming by. Arthfeal. His teeth tightened over the moss slightly. Grudge of being booted out of a den aside, Tychon’s deep rooted dislike was due to his white-backed superiors’s direct involvement in driving Tychon back to a home he ended up liking. Immature as it was, Tychon didn’t like being a boost to some else’s status. And that’s what he was to Arthfael. So, he felt it was his duty to remind Arthy how nasty he could be. As much as Tychon was a loyal pack wolf now, he wanted the Armor Wing to regret dragging him to the mountains like an injured fawn… which he had been at the time with his dumb injured rear leg and healing ripped lip from the attack he’d suffered by two wolves.

At the comment about his den, Tychon’s fur stiffened, taking the compliment undoubtable as mockery. He spat the moss out to the side and retorted in a defensive whisper (courtesy of his messed up voice box), “I’ve been busy, unlike your lazy ass prancing after Vesta’s tail.” What was the Armor Wing’s job, anyways? And who was it actually out on the border? Tychon. So there. That was why his den was all sorts of covered in moss and grime. He was fixing it… it was actually starting to look pretty clean again. Sure, Tychon could insult it because it was his negligible mess, but no one else could. It stung to have his space judged. It’s not like he left it gross on purpose.

In preparation for the insult he was certain Arthfael would snap at him, Tychon puffed out his chest to taunt his rival. It’d been too long since Tychon had a bout of any sort… not really. Yesterday he’d tussled with Kalseru for dominance and he was still sore and scraped up a bit, but with Arth? It had been so long that Tychon had forgotten the male’s condescending personality that extremely vexed him. His memory refreshed, he felt a bit of satisfied justification to giving Arthfael a difficult time.