He was largely unaware of the other wolf until she leapt up, barking, and he recoiled with his lip curled and ears back. Initially, Possum regarded her beauty, but her words caused him to snarl in scorn. Perhaps he was not the most observant, but certainly she must smell the thick musk of Iromar on his pelt, marked with not the scent of its former leader but of the Darkbringer. "Who are you... to a'th'k me to leave?" His words were measured, careful and deliberate, but he could not stop his lisp from sneaking through. His eyes narrowed upon her, the adolescent lashed his tail back and forth, his fur bristling with aggression. Her words were not anticipated, and the idea that he not be accepted even here nearly brought him into a rage.

Possum continued to stare daggers at the woman, his lips peeled back over his gnarled and yellowed teeth. As much as she was beautiful, the creature before her was ugly, holding all of the pent-up rage and resentment over the circumstances of his birth and early life. "I am the Darkbringer's Th'ilverfang." It was rare that he spoke, preferring to communicate in visceral growls and snarls, but he saw no other way to let her know that he belonged here as much as she did. Blackthorne had given him purpose and he was not about to let her, or anyone else, deny him that.

Savagery lurked behind his pastel gaze as he watched her, beginning to pace around her in a wide circle, unwilling to display any outward aggression just yet-- but still, his claim upon his fate here was clear. There was a loveliness to her, a strange sort of beauty, but he could not let it drag his guard down should she attack him. Perhaps his words would mean nothing and she might seek to drive him out with force. Who would face him, known by name as a rabid creature, an omen of decay? He snarled again, his claws digging into the spongy ground. There would be no confusion as to where he belonged, and who he belonged to.