Horizon Ridge there's something here that's broken

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Declan idles at the edge of the Ridge: the cusp where the Ridge bleeds into the Forest, it’s urine and scent markings strong. He knows a pack claims it and he recognizes it’s most strongest scent. The coywolf. Arturo Fearghal. Ceannasach of Quicksilver Hollow until he was no more and departed to his own devices. Declan’s black, leathery nostrils drank in the scents upon the borders again, learning all that he could from them. He would bleed them dry if he could. As it stood, they told him a lot. Two of their females were expecting whelps, he knows they are of average size and if he had his way their numbers would swell. His tail lashes behind him like the swing of a blade as he bows his head to draw in the scent again. He discerns what he wants from them before he retreats back to the heart of Horizon Ridge. He draws his salmon pink tongue across his jowls as he contemplates the information he has taken from the borders and tucks it away to process it. Arturo Fearghal is the head of the Family and Declan had long since been inducted into it when he’d been given the choice. Still, he is unsure what has changed and what has remained the same and so he does not rush into the process of seeking asylum with Teaghlaigh …if that is what it remains.

The Commander’s steps slow as he reaches what is left of the collapsed ridge, casting a disinterested look in the direction of the rocks that had fallen in the landslide that had once damaged this territory. Spring is upon these Wilds and he does not worry about the fear of starving to death — not that he would he is a skilled hunter though he specialty remained with ungulates. He tracks a mother and her fawns now, separated from their herd or perhaps they had no herd now with a singular mind, as if it is an obsession that has taken hold. He breathes in a different scent as he follows the tracks, and switches his direction as smaller hoof prints taper off and go a different path. He finds the young, spotted fawn not long after he follows the trail, bleating for it’s mother, wondering around with all the symptoms of being lost. The Commander is not known for his compassion and he thinks only to put it out of it’s misery not because he is a bleeding heart but because he is hungry. It falls only after landing a kick that he absorbs with his broad shoulder. There is not much power behind it but it smarts nevertheless. Declan’s jaws snap around the fawn’s neck and he gives it a sharp yank and shakes it back and forth, feeling it fall limp beneath him as it’s neck snaps beneath the force of his unrelenting teeth.

He lets it drop unceremoniously with a lifeless thud to the grass under his paws and rolls his shoulder, giving a small grunt of pain. It will bother him for a week or so, he suspects but he does not think anything is broken nor any permanent damage is done.

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