SWAN SONG

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She comes, a familiar sort of wench. She doesn't much look like the wench who had come baring the news of their mother's death upon her back; she looks stronger, empowered. HIs tail twitches behind him, bloodied gaze settling upon the frame of the Queen. She states the obvious; she ought to know him, grown or not. His figure stands dominant, but respectful. He's not dominant over her, but everyone else. She is the matriarch, after all, and he feels little need or want to defy the familial sense of loyalty within his veins that demands he play nice and obey.
Her question comes, if he is in fact staying. HIs cranium nods his acceptance of a position within the pack. "I want a rank," he demands so boldly. HIs tail lashes behind him, claws delving into the earthy soil beneath. "A good one," he says. He can be of much use if his dear sister will let him; if not it is her loss, and her loss alone.