Altar of Twilight victory does not make us conquerors

Meandering into another predator's field of view, Churchill prowled lazily about with a drizzle weighing on his shoulders. His natural inclination steered him towards the altar. He had a heart made to be far above sea level, and he knew he could find respite there. His hunger made him beeline; he sniffed here and there, loping back and forth— vacuuming for clues in the damp earth that would hopefully lead him to something edible.

But nothing had come this way in a while. Not even a rabbit. Churchill froze suddenly and picked up his long nose. Leathers twitched, and his spinefur bristled as his head turned slowly into the breeze. He couldn't yet discern that the scent of her came distantly from a ways above him, but he proceeded forward to investigate anyway.