He was overprotective of the land he dwelt, the land he owned as far as Mother Nature allowed; the boundaries chosen by Iskata and her companions when the pack was first settled were the very same borders that bound the one-eyed monstrosity to his fate. There was no reason for a creature like he to rule a pack, to administer directions and ensure the safety of adults and whelps alike he might have once killed and mutilated out of sheer madness had it only been a few years in the past. Here in present day, however, he was Jefferson: the three-legged cyclops who was only a shadow of what Maluki had been, both in his youth and madness.
And as Jefferson, he was Phoenix Valley's guardian. What happened within his borders were more than his business, they were his lifeblood. The continuous flux of ingoing and outgoing faces that he often was barely given the chance to acquaintance were what appeared in his dreams, most of which were incomprehensible. One could not rule a pack without knowing what kept the pack alive; members, their faults and their strengths, were always on his mind. Even when he avoided them physically, they still existed mentally as a torrential headache.
In his wanderings, he recognized the scent of Geneva mingling with that of a stranger. There was no suspicion, no cause for alarm aroused for the gimp: he trusted his subleader -- and mate, somehow -- with whatever stranger was darkening their borders like so many others had as of late. It was not until he heard a rather sharp, sudden shout that the fur on his neck bristled and his instincts kicked in. He spun on his heel without second thought, returned towards the sound's source, and simply appeared before them. Arm in its sling and single green eye critically affixed on the stranger, his grumbling voice rose from his throat. "I'm sorry," the Patriarch murmured bitterly, gaze unshifting from the foreign girl, "I thought I heard my name."