Meadowlark Prairie Call me anytime you can see the lightning

He pointedly ignored the signs of an encroaching thunderstorm as he set off across the prairie, determined to capture some sort of prey, even if it was only a mouse. There were definitely signs of rodents on the barren plain—holes of various sizes threatened to re-break his leg—but there were no scents. The residents of these underground burrows had moved on from this place, abandoning the utter lack of life for presumably greener pastures elsewhere. The thought was mildly amusing—did rabbits move in, like, herds?—but the sharp pains in his stomach and the pounding in his skull leeched any real humor out of the moment.

He found a snake basking on a rock and couldn't even manage to slay it. The damn thing's neck curved into an "S" bend and Peregrine backed off, not quite desperate enough to risk wrangling with a possibly venomous serpent. Ignoring the audible snarling coming from his pitifully empty stomach, he kept roaming east, then south, heading away from the claimed forest over yonder and instead moving toward the distant mesa even as thunder rumbled overhead.

Link to roll.

takes ur threads

Hatshepsut does not hunt, not today. Not at this moment. The roll of thunder moves beneath her skin; electrified so, she moves toward it, the darkening sky illuminating the thinned body under her once-regal pelt. Starvation has affected the cool hunger of her mind; she is thirsty, and with the threat of death comes the promise of water, to stretch the confines of her belly and confuse her brain, at least for some small while.

But here is a man, hale, large despite the famine. Hatshepsut pauses in her trek, for the wind brings her the scent of his coat, and it is the fragrance worn by the woman and the child in the forest. She does not think he will take kindly to her nearness; the Regent turns away, stumbling with a stifled cry as her ankle twists.

The sound of a cry caused the black wolf to whirl immediately, lips skinning back from his teeth as alarm bells went off in his head. Prey...! A shadow of displeasure passed over his face when he saw that it was not game but a skinny she-wolf. If the situation were a bit more desperate, he would have considered her viable quarry... but Peregrine hadn't crossed that line just yet, despite the pinch of hunger in the pit of his belly.

His jaw flexed as he remained where he stood, rooted to the spot. Once upon a time, he might have considered trying to recruit her or, better yet, chasing her away. But Peregrine had neither the time or energy for such pursuits. She was not food, so she was an unwelcome distraction.

Stupid, foolish woman! she berates herself, testing her weight upon the ankle. It has not been damaged, thankfully -- only a mere sprain that will result in a limp, she assumes. However, Hatshepsut does not have time to ponder this, for the man looms above her, hunger mounted upon his features and irritation in his eyes.

The woman backs away gingerly; now is not the moment for her usual cool implacability. And yet here is an option before her; the wolf is of a pack, and she herself is starving. Pride wars within her against the need of her body -- would she submit to  a man if it meant that she could be saved?

"I am not so wretched as I seem," the Egyptian speaks, her tone carefully modulated. "You have the scent of a pack upon you. Please --" the word burns her very mouth with shame -- "tell me what I must do to join." Hatshepsut turns her eyes to the earth as she speaks, if only to keep the rage that ignites within her from being seen. And yet there is a true desperation here; the insects of the dirt and the occasional morsel of flesh will not keep her alive for a handful of days longer.

She backed away from him and Peregrine prepared to turn, each of them heading off in their respective directions (and both likely searching fruitlessly for food). But then she spoke and he paused, swinging his head to face her again, jade eyes narrowing in impatient annoyance.

He did not have sympathy for strangers, not with four hungry children at home. "Bring me meat," Peregrine responded blandly, aware that it was an impossible task and not caring. "I have pups to feed. They cannot hunt for themselves. I do not need another hungry mouth, unless it can bring in more than it takes," he said with an emotionless shrug.

FAILURE. also last post for me D:

The man speaks, and while the answer is disappointing, laced as it is with impossibility, Hatshepsut nods, and rises. She does not insist that he remains, nor does she think he will, but the woman moves carefully off across the flat land. Her first two attempts at a hare are hampered by the twingeing of pain along her ankle, and it is some hours before she glances back along her shoulder toward the place where she had left the man.

But her grasp is empty, and so she does not return. He has demanded a clear contribution, and Hatshepsut has nothing; her belly cramps with hunger and her shame is vengeful upon her now, and so she does not go back. 

However, she will attempt again; this she vows as a thin cough racks her body.

She nodded, rose and padded away. Peregrine could not have guessed whether she was setting off to hunt for him or simply making an exit. He didn't have time to sit around, waiting and wondering. He snorted quietly, then resumed his earlier trajectory, loping purposefully in the direction of the mesa. By the time he got there, he had forgotten all about the skinny she-wolf. He busied himself with sniffing around the landmark for signs of prey, then reluctantly taking cover when the storm broke overhead.

He couldn't decide which was louder: the snarling thunder or the rumbling of his empty stomach.