Your opinion is noted, Swims-Black-River. Your opinion is valued. But I do not choose to agree with it.

The Sept Compound(#2075RAM)
Sweeping branches of trees form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of this clearing, no more than an open space of grasses and beaten earth in the heart of the forest. Some pains have been taken to keep wear and tear on the area to a minimum, so the firepit tends to shift from time to time. The firepit, several sawn logs polished from use, and a stack of firewood discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce under a tarp, are the only signs of constant occupation. However, those of a naturalistic bent might think that some minimal landscaping or planning had been done, for nestled among the winter-browned grasses are a few hardy perennials that, come spring, will create a profusion of color in the clearing.
A faint trail leads off to the east, and a bit north.

It's raining lightly, an unwelcome drizzle that coats everything in a slippery wet film. Blackriver is making her way through the sept compound, looking not so happy to be here. After a moment of sniffing fruitlessly at the ground, she throws her head up and lets out a howl to inform the bawn that she's looking for one Lightning-rhya.

Mere minutes pass before Lightning arrives. Maybe there's something to be said for living in a house within earshot of howls from the bawn. He trots into the compound and up to Blackriver. You sought me? he enquires.

Blackriver gives a soft chuff in the affirmative, and moves forward to sniff at Lightning, posture dropping to a submissive stance. Promises-Kept failed at the tasks I set him. She informs the Galliard once she's withdrawn her nose.

I know why, Lightning responds dourly. It was because he and I both spent so much time trapped in the umbra by spider-webs. I have spoken to Culls-Herd-rhya about him. Her scent is still fresh in my den from when we discussed him.

Blackriver flicks an ear. The terms have not been met. Why does not matter. You may do what you want as an elder, but those were the terms. The Philodox's body tenses a bit as she speaks.
He failed, agrees Lightning. But I have agreed fresh terms with the Alpha-of-all which will let him become one of the sept at last.

Blackriver gives Lightning a strange look, and her hackles raise. But those were /my/ terms. To prove that he could work with the sept. And he couldn't.

Lightning bristles a little himself in response. Then you would send him away now?

Blackriver's ears flatten, and she replies in the affirmative. He has been given a chance. He has failed at the chance. You asked me to judge him as a Philodox, and I did. And he failed.

Then you would send him away now? Lightning asks again, ears flicking back and forth in annoyance, or possibly in uncertainty.

Blackriver blinks slowly and after a moment she replies with a yes again. By now her fur is bristling with moon-fed annoyance and anger.

Lightning stands stock still for several moments, evidently thinking. A slow growl builds very gradually in his throat and his lower lip slides backwards, exposing his teeth little by little.

Blackriver draws her tail under her belly in submission, and waits for further reaction from Lightning, posture tense and body coiled like a spring.

Lightning relents at this show of submission. You are philodox, he agrees. But I am alpha of first tribe and Culls-Herd is alpha of sept. And Falcon is our totem who chose Promises-Kept as one of his own.

Blackriver tips her head to the side and agrees with that. Her hackles continue to raise though, and she obviously doesn't like where this conversation is going.

If he can meet these new terms of Culls-Herd-rhya's, he will be a sept member. If he does not, he will not. That is that, Lightning informs the philodox flatly. He's still bristling visibly at her.

Blackriver's lips curl back into a snarl. So my judgment as a Philodox means nothing. So Promises-Kept gets yet another chance. So he can fail and fail, but you can keep speaking for him. You make his way ahead for him, despite what he may do. The Philodox's words are garbled a bit by her anger, and lupus speech being a poor conductor for such thoughts, but she manages to get them across none the less.

Lightning's hackles rise once more. Your opinion is noted, Swims-Black-River. Your opinion is valued. But I do not choose to agree with it.

Blackriver's ears flatten and her fur bristles. You did not ask my opinion. You asked my judgment. She notes, the lupus seething with anger. And then when it did not fit what you wanted you discarded it.

Lightning growls once more, this time a snarl in earnest, and takes a step forward and a snap at the air close to Blackriver's head. I am chosen of Falcon. My word is not to be questioned, he proclaims furiously. Cease your rebellion and submit or I shall beat submission into you.

Blackriver returns the growl in kind, the low vibrating noise draining out of her throat. Slowly, she raises her head to stare into Lightning's eyes, body quivering under the force of will needed to stare down a Fostern.

Lightning's eyes lock with Blackriver's and the two Silver Fangs stare at each other, former leader and present one, for a long moment. As they match wills, Lightning seems to swell up and his body to glow faintly. Perhaps just a trick of the light. Perhaps not. His already muscular lupus form does seem to have grown larger still.

Blackriver continues to stare back one long moment, Rage bristling behind her eyes like a predator laying in wait. A low growl issues from her throat, a sound that patters out into a whine as the Philodox's gaze drops down, and she lowers her body in submission.

Lightning's head cranes down to follow Blackriver's progress to the floor. He glares down at her supine form for several seconds, before finally breaking his gaze, and turning away to begin walking out of the clearing.

Blackriver watches Lightning leave, and then turns and walks off herself, heading towards the South.