To avoid getting his face caught in the warning snap of the other wolf, Tychon tilted his chin down to create enough space. His eyes remained focused on the expressions of the floppy-eared wolf’s face. Despite Tychon’s pressing, however, the wolf remained obscenely cool headed. His ears flexed backwards when the wolf finally decided to fight back a bit. Being called a Frankenstein was… inventive. And in fact, it was almost settling and refreshing to know that someone wasn’t a blind goody-two-toes and could straight out, with no reservation, tell Tychon what he already knew. Inclined to give the wolf better respect, Tychon made no move to further invade the wolf’s space.

Tychon’s amber eyes narrowed at being called a mutt, but he probably was if he thought about the difference in stature and coloration between Nathaniel and Namaah (his mother). He might be full wolf, but he was definitely not a pure bred valley wolf or grey wolf, for example. Despite the insults spat at Tychon, his victim was disappointingly unfired and refused to give the extreme reaction Tychon wanted. Tychon remained stationary at his spot on the bank, but responded as the guy swam across the pond, “You’re sort of a stick in the mud, ya know?”

Plus your argument is totally erroneous, Tychon added to himself. Just because he touched the scaly prey didn’t mean Tychon thought he’d any right to it and if Tychon thought he had, it was because floppy-ear over there was a lesser creature because of his likeness to domesticated canines. Beside that, Tychon really had just been trying to get a grander reaction out of him. If Tychon got bit, then he had the appropriate justification to bite back. However, the bullying had produced an uncharacteristically civil result instead. Damn cool-headed “proper” wolves always took the fun out of fighting, but Tychon supposed they would. Their parents probably taught them that fighting was wrong. That’s what he had learned, anyways.

His stomach felt a bit nauseated while he watched the other wolf settle on the opposite bank. It was always the same; Tychon enjoyed an argument or fight, but everyone else didn’t. Tychon rolled his eyes at being told off and he barked, “Hope your teeth rot on your fish-diet. Later, Floppy.” Tychon turned his attention up the crag and he continued his ascent up the terraced waterfalls. He didn’t feel much like eating fish now; maybe he’d bait a weasel with one instead.