Ashberry

Wardrobe LInk

Ashberry moved through the pack with a grace that made her stand out, her gray fur speckled with black like the night sky, and her three magenta eyes gleaming with self-assured arrogance. To anyone who laid eyes upon her, she was no ordinary wolf—she was a princess, a creature of beauty and poise. From the moment she could walk, she held her head high, and her steps were deliberate, as if she were walking on a royal path only she could see. She expected deference and respect from all around her, demanding the recognition she believed she deserved.

But Ashberry's airs did not sit well with Queen Bloodmoon. The queen, fierce and bloodthirsty, ruled with an iron paw, and she had no patience for wolves who fancied themselves royalty without her blessing. To Bloodmoon, Ashberry was a nuisance, an arrogant young wolf who needed to be put in her place.

"Who told you that you are a princess?" Bloodmoon would sneer, her scarlet eyes narrowing as she towered over Ashberry. "You have done nothing to earn such a title."

Ashberry, undeterred, would meet the queen's gaze with all three of her magenta eyes, a hint of defiance in her stance. "I do not need to earn what I already am," she would reply with an elegant tilt of her head. "Royalty is in my very being, and it shines through, whether you see it or not."

These clashes became a frequent occurrence. Queen Bloodmoon saw Ashberry as a challenge to her authority, a pretty wolf with too much pride and not enough fear. But Ashberry refused to bow. She walked through the pack as if every wolf should recognize her innate nobility, her fur glimmering in the light, and her voice carrying a confident lilt that seemed to dance on the air.

The tension between Ashberry and Bloodmoon simmered just below the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment. Bloodmoon, ever the tactician, considered ways to humble Ashberry, to make her see that only the queen could decide who was worthy of being a princess. But Ashberry remained undeterred, holding fast to her belief in her own worth, her arrogance only growing with each confrontation.

She would sometimes parade through the pack's den, her movements elegant, her chin held high. "A princess does not need approval," she would say, her voice light but firm. "A princess simply is."

Bloodmoon, tired of Ashberry's defiance, plotted ways to break her spirit, to force her to concede that she was no princess, just another wolf in a pack ruled by Bloodmoon's iron paw. Yet Ashberry stood her ground, her presence an ever-present reminder that there were some who did not fear the queen, who believed themselves above her rule.

To Bloodmoon, Ashberry was a thorn, but to others, she was a symbol of a different kind of power—a power rooted in self-belief, arrogance, and an unshakable sense of self-worth. The question remained: would Ashberry's confidence make her a true princess in the eyes of the pack, or would Queen Bloodmoon find a way to crush her spirit?