In the flatlands, with the thunder of deers' hooves in his ears, Lecter watched the black shadow drag his well-gotten prey toward the safety of the Plateau. Fresh blood dripped slowly from his cheeks and withers, and the hapless muskrat caught in the open lay gutted beside him, its entrails wrapped comfortably around the shaman's feet. From here, he could not scent the wolf, though from the physique alone, he felt the blackfur was a male.

Presently, he rose to follow. A younger version of himself would have dashed after the wolf, torn away part of his kill, but Lecter intended no such thing; he did not wish to be slaughtered so close to the Plateau. Keeping many feet between himself and the other, enough to turn and depart if need be, Lecter padded forward, bloody footprints leaking in his wake and a strangled laugh choking off in his throat.

The male snarled quite savagely, and had he been addressing any sane creature, running away would have been the wise course of action. Lecter merely slowed to a halt; he was not near enough to the Plateau borders to pose a threat, but he would take himself away if the blackpelted fellow decided to attack. Black wolves were known for such things, Lecter added ominously to himself.

At length, Lecter dropped what he had been holding in his jaws, the object cutting off his laughter, and nudged it deftly in the Plateau wolf's direction, before turning and loping away, putting several more feet betwixt himself and the threatening display. But he turned back, icewater eyes bright with the pleasure of the game, bloody ears cupped forward.

Had the wolf paid closer attention to the carcass, he would have noticed a lack of internal organs; Lecter had stuffed the muskrat with a mixture of herbs and bones, and its head was not present. A fetish, to test the Plateau, and it would release its power in a variety of ways. But words arced out toward him, and Lecter shook his head with deliberate slowness, given the distance between them.

I am not hurt, and I want little from you, the shaman called, prancing a mad little dance in the grasses of the flatlands. You need have no fear of me, or for me, Lecter added. Only my gifts. Salmon tongue lashed his lips and he waited to see what the other would do, or would say; the shadow had surprised him today.

Lecter chortled. I do not plan to return. He watched with glee as the dark wolf sniffed at his offering, and subsequently raised his voice to the shaman. Teeth showed in a brazen grin. It is a toy — for children. It was most certainly not a toy, and neither could Lecter have known that the blackfur had pups; he meant his words to be chilling.

With that, he turned and loped away, glancing behind himself for time to time to see if the other would give chase or let him alone. He would not go towards the Mount if such happened; he would dash in another direction. No one need know who his mistress was — not yet.

Lecter watched, amused, as the stranger picked up the muskrat, but the slant of his body denied interest in the fetish. Into the river it was dropped, and the shadow cast a glance in the shaman's direction. In answer, Lecter gave a loud round of mocking, rusted laughter; yes, drop the fetish into the water that ran beside the Plateau. It would be washed away, but hopefully not until one of Peregrine's own had a chance to drink from the river.

And if such failed, Lecter would go against his word, and bring more fetishes. Or perhaps he would send Tyrande, or Sitri. He did not intend to steal prey or herbs from the Blacktail wolves; his was a spiritual war, and he met the male's eyes brazenly before turning and breaking into a wolf-trot that carried him swiftly away.