A feast of the wolves was usually accompanied by the stench of pelts, curses, brawls, and blood—especially when Bloodclaws were involved. Those young wolf pups were very eager to carry forward that ancient tradition.
They were more combative than the Grey Hunters and Wolf Guard put together. The latter two had long since learned to put their anger to use in real battle. Brawls in their free time still happened often, but they would never choose to do it during a feast unless someone truly pushed them too far.
They knew good food and fine ale were hard to come by. Fighting could wait until after eating and drinking.
But the Bloodclaws had no such concerns. They were in the so-called prime of youth, the blood in their bodies restless all day long. It was impossible for them to go a day without a few fights.
Just like now, one Bloodclaw was grabbing another and beating him viciously. The way he threw his punches made him suffer a little for it—one punch broke his opponent's nose, and also fractured his own fingers.
He was too excited, so he completely forgot how he should control the force behind his blows. You couldn't go all out every single time. That would get you hurt along with the other man.
His opponent was knocked to the ground, then staggered back to his feet a dozen seconds later, but unfortunately, it was too late.
When he briefly gained precious lucidity through the numbness of blood, pain, and mead, an uppercut coming straight at him knocked him to the ground again.
This time, he failed to get up. He only raised his right hand shakily to signal surrender. He had yielded, and the watching wolves burst into laughter, splashing cup after cup of mead onto