Ashe
A challenge. I think that's wise; she should earn her place, I say as we run. I match him stride for stride, lengthening my gait when his pace quickens. It’s as if my paws already know the rhythm of this forest—though it’s not familiarity, it’s instinct. Every root is stepped over cleanly, every fallen log cleared in a smooth leap, every rabbit hole skirted without pause. My heart thuds heavy in my chest in time with my paws, the sound echoing in my ears, and it feels good. Wonderful. My legs stretch far, muscles pulling and releasing in time with the larger beast ahead of me.
I’ve always been a little feral by nature, and the wolf in me… she’s been waiting her whole life for moments like this. Every time I let her loose, a little more of the joy I’d lost along the way comes back.
When he pulls up short through a grove, I slow with a bounce of my forepaws, tongue lolling, breath huffing in visible clouds. My gaze catches on how he all but vanishes into the shadow of the trees, the dark of his coat dissolving against the trunks and frost. My jaws snap shut as I draw in a breath, scenting the air—there. The flock.
Ningos. Fat, white-feathered birds, their meat rich and their down lining coats and hats across Halo. My mouth waters without thought. I’ve eaten raw before; my instincts remember the taste. And they remember how satisfying it is to scatter a flock just for the hell of it.
I nod once to his ambush suggestion, a flash of approval in my eyes. I like your style, I murmur through the bond.
Circling around the fallen log, I sink low into the snow, my belly nearly brushing the crust. My tail stills, ears pricked forward, every muscle locked in waiting. My eyes track the movement of the birds, already picturing the eruption of wings and chaos. I glance once toward him, holding steady, ready for his signal.
I’ve always been a little feral by nature, and the wolf in me… she’s been waiting her whole life for moments like this. Every time I let her loose, a little more of the joy I’d lost along the way comes back.
When he pulls up short through a grove, I slow with a bounce of my forepaws, tongue lolling, breath huffing in visible clouds. My gaze catches on how he all but vanishes into the shadow of the trees, the dark of his coat dissolving against the trunks and frost. My jaws snap shut as I draw in a breath, scenting the air—there. The flock.
Ningos. Fat, white-feathered birds, their meat rich and their down lining coats and hats across Halo. My mouth waters without thought. I’ve eaten raw before; my instincts remember the taste. And they remember how satisfying it is to scatter a flock just for the hell of it.
I nod once to his ambush suggestion, a flash of approval in my eyes. I like your style, I murmur through the bond.
Circling around the fallen log, I sink low into the snow, my belly nearly brushing the crust. My tail stills, ears pricked forward, every muscle locked in waiting. My eyes track the movement of the birds, already picturing the eruption of wings and chaos. I glance once toward him, holding steady, ready for his signal.
inside my blood and bone
and their network of tendon and meat
you and i, our histories of hunting
and being the beast.
