Lovelace

The Augur
☽⛧☾

It is no secret that the third reigning monarch of Cleití Dubh has little interest in entertaining wandering strays. So long as no threat is held over the pretty heads of his precious subordinates, he couldn't possibly care less about who wanders onto campgrounds, regardless of intent. In fact, it seems as though he isn't even interested in monitoring visitors; even those offering peace and/or alliance are quickly redirected to his right hand—or, if they are particularly persistent, told to hightail it back home.
This haughty, standoffish demeanor of his is, of course, reserved for unfamiliar faces. Not that he isn't a little snippy with his family as well; when you raise your future leader as though he were some sort of messiah, you can't be surprised when he develops a complex accordingly. And yet, while most might view King Lovelace as nothing short of a spoiled brat who was given an alarming amount of power, his packmates know him to be trustworthy and just, if not a little quick on the draw. Their patience for his antics know no bounds, for they are aware how quickly he was thrust into power after being but another starved, beaten, and neglected victim of the market, and how daunting it is to fill the shoes of his vastly revered predecessors.

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The den of the King is marked with many a feather, pelt, and jewel, its walls lined with the polished trophies of recent kills, some of which very clearly do not belong to prey. Whether this is an attempt to ward off squeamish intruders or simply the King gloating about his triumphs in spite of his youth is beyond you; believe it or not, you have more important things to worry about than whether or not this brute is capable of stringing you up by your hide.

The familiar scape of claws on stone draws your eye as you peer inside. It's hard to map out the shape of his silhouette in the darkness, but you're just barely able to make out the various blues and reds that mark the King's otherwise inky coat, and you can see the fur along his nape rise, even as he refuses to raise his eye.

You clear your throat, but are quick to hold your tongue when whatever impending speech you had prepared was met met with the glimmer of pearly fangs.

"Keep the heathens away from me. That is all I ask of them," seethed the brute as he dragged his claws along a piece of flint, the resulting sparks briefly illuminating his scowl, "and yet, here you are. As if I have nothing better to do than entertain all of the godforsaken rats that wander past the border."

Only when you open your maw, whether it be to snark back, defend yourself, or awkwardly apologize for your "bad blood," does he finally meet your gaze. "Why are you still here?"
Well, you haven't even gotten your request out yet, that's why. But even as you try to clarify this, he interrupts you with a huff, rolling his eyes as though you've purposely caused him a terrible inconvenience. "Are you going to take the hint and get the hell out, or are we going to have a problem?"

You struggle not to mutter a few curses between clenched teeth as you turn tail and slink your way back down the hillside. So much for keeping the peace.