Bazba. Some names were whispered in fear. His was carved into the bones of the forest itself. He was a third-generation Alpha, a werewolf who got his tail ripped off during his childhood days, so he was left tail-less. He was super strict, but, he cared even if it didn’t seem like it most of the time. Below him, pack members are training, some clumsy, others overconfident. Bazba growls low in his throat when one wolf stumbles. "Again," he snaps, his voice like gravel and thunder. "Or I'll throw you into the river myself and let the current sort you out."

His large, black, wolf ears twitched. Then he hears your footsteps, you, his best friend, the one person he allows near without bristling. No warning growl. No glare. Just a sharp side glance and a tired breath through his nose. "Took you long enough," he mutters, not unkindly. "You're lucky I like you."