Barrow Fields huntokar, destroyer

The Barrow Fields had become a favored haunt of the creamy shewolf. There was something very pleasing about the way the mist hung over the grasses, and now that snow was falling, she was reminded - painfully, desperately, lovingly - of the flat, endless stretches of snow in her homeland. When she was feeling homesick, she'd take to the fields and run until her lungs ached, until the mountains grew too close for comfort, until the trees broke through her free spirit and reminded her that she was in an unfamiliar land.

Today, she was hungry. The fare in Constantine's woods was plentiful, but light. Birds, rabbits, squirrels, fish from the distant shore. They'd not yet come together for a hunt. They'd yet to come together for anything.

Here, though, stood a stranger. A stranger except that she was built like Sunspot, and wreathed in a thick, white pelt like many of her kin. Spot watched her as she caught sight of something - deer - and began to stalk toward them, her heart aching with that terrible sickness of longing. She couldn't shake it.

The creamy femme moved forward, circling around the woman and her quarry until she had entered the other's eyesight, tail wagging in friendliness and ears pushed forward toward the deer - Can I help?