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The group made their way through a small gorge in the rocks, which led to a spacious ravine. Waiting there was none other than Thorn, sitting in the middle, within plain sight; a shiver trickled down the wolf-dog’s spine, because he knew that the scarred gray male had a particular dislike for him.
‘Maybe he dislikes me on the same level that everyone else does, but he’s just grumpy and it appears worse,’ Finbar reasoned.
Leaf litter and packed dirt painted the area, with sparse grass scattered about in mottled patches, blended softly together. Birch trees lined the rock wall surrounding the open ground, white and flaky with dark stripes slicing through, making a contrasting pattern. The leaves of the birches were a warm green, jagged and almost triangular in shape.
“This is our designated training place,” Silvera spoke clearly, voice raised for all to hear. “We call it Birches. Here, our brave adults pass down what they know to the next generation. We will pass on what we know to you… if you prove you are worth our time, that is.”
Finbar nodded. “I understand.”
Thorn approached, giving a respectful dip of his head toward Silvera, then eyeing Finbar. “Lady Silvera.”
“Wolf-dog, you will face Sir Thorn here in battle, we must see what you are capable of,” the classy, authoritative she-wolf declared.
Finbar lowered his tail. “Isn't Sir Thorn more experienced than me?”
Silvera seemed to think, but did not answer, keeping an expressionless face, and beckoned to the white wolf-dog to move forward, so he did. He walked up to Thorn, who led him a few feet ahead of the others, then they stopped face to face with each other.
Sorley sat down, watching intently beside Silvera.
Thorn truly did look so much more experienced, as if he had had plenty of time to refine his defensive and offensive skill sets, and it deeply unnerved Finbar to the point of frustration; how was he meant to claim a victory against such a ripped up, weathered veteran, one that more than likely looked forward to munching on his bones?
“Alright, half-breed,” Thorn held out his tail and perked his ears straight up, looking directly into Finbar's golden eyes, “You are welcome to attack first.”
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The gray male was built like a pillar, strong and sturdy. His chest was massive for a wolf, because normally the species had no space between the front legs. Thorn was functionally a tank build, in every sense of the word.
‘One paw blow from him, and I might be finished,’ the wolf-dog wagered, feeling stressed. ‘No, I can't hold back today. I have to go for it!’
A fury of flashing white fangs hurled at Sir Thorn, accompanied by wolfish snarling, aiming for the throat, the most vital area. Finbar was almost sure he wouldn't land the bite, but to his shock he did; clamping down with his teeth, he shook Thorn and pulled at his throat, not intending to kill, of course, but to maim.
There was only one problem with that; Thorn was not budging, nor even reacting. Finbar stood there like an idiot, gnawing fruitlessly on the soldier. His mind drew a blank, for he had no idea what to do next.
“That is real cute, boy,” Thorn huffed, then shook the wolf-dog off, swiftly whipping around to roundhouse kick Finbar in the jaw with his massive back leg, sending him tumbling away.
A grunt of pain escaped his maw, and when he looked around he was dazed, the world felt like it was spinning. He stayed still on the ground for a moment longer, recovering.
“Is a kick all it takes to put you out of commission?” Thorn barked. “I do not fear you a single bit, then.”
‘Why did I think that would work?’ He sighed.
With aching pain in his body, and throbbing agony in his jaw, the newcomer struggled to a standing position. He gasped for air to deal with the terrible feeling; he had not felt anything like this since the river, on that dreadful snowy night. Adrenaline filled Finbar to the tips of his fur, along with something else; rage.
The pain had caused an interesting chain reaction in the young male; memories of past things that had hurt him like a knife down in his heart had awakened a repressed version of himself, one that felt hatred and bitterness, one that was no longer willing to be pushed around like a weak, unwanted mongrel.
On top of that, this fight with another male brought to the surface his most basic of instincts; territorial drive. While this was not actually about territory, the masculine genetics that coursed through his veins took him over, lighting him aflame with malevolence for his opponent, another male daring to pose a challenge to him.
This was dominant behavior, something that could not fly in a wolf pack unless Finbar was the Alpha, but he did not know it yet. He would have to be taught to hold back his inner self, out of respect for hierarchy and class, or he would end up not only getting his ass beat often, but he would also embarrass his mate. He might even squander his chances of being accepted altogether.
For now though, his sweet rage would aid him in his first assessment.
As his pain numbed due to the hormones flooding his brain, he carefully inspected Thorn, looking for every possible way he could attack. The critical use of his head was necessary, for his brawn would not suffice if he wanted to be victorious.
“What are you waiting for? Come on!” Thorn growled.
The white male lunged forward, but this time with a plan. He saw his opponent ready himself to strike a blow, and so he dodged him at the last moment, using his agility to latch on tight to his side.
Though, as soon as Finbar had sunk his teeth in, he felt Thorn crush his back with his jaws, pulling him off almost effortlessly. The untrained wolf-dog was then thrown across the dirt, hitting his head and receiving a generous amount of leaves and sticks in his mouth.