A leaf drifted down in front of her, tickling her as it lightly danced over the end of her nose. She snorted, looking upward in annoyance at the squirrels that fussed and scurried about in the leafy branches overhead, wishing very much that she were a bobcat in that moment, so she could bound up that tree and catch the pesky, chattering morsels between her teeth. Hunger gnawed at her belly, but she had not seen much in the way of prey since she had parted ways with her brother a few hours prior. After having agreed on a meeting place, they had taken separate paths in the search for food. She hoped Antares was having better luck on his end than she was on hers. At the rate she was going, the only way she was going to find a meal today was if she learned how to climb a tree or if she sprouted wings.

Wrinkling her nose sourly at the squirrels above, she continued moving along the leaf-strewn trail through the delightfully airy forest. A soft green radiance suffused the air around her as sunlight filtered down through the lush, verdant canopy above. Broken shards of golden light mottled the soft, earthy forest floor and rippled warmly across her back as she walked. The rich, punky smell of wood and warm earth surrounded her, while unseen songbirds spun their bright, tinkling melodies into the breeze. This place was beautiful. Much more picturesque and peaceful, even, than the forest in which they had been staying since their arrival in the lands. She thought Antares would enjoy it, and made a mental note to bring him here soon.

The smell of game occasionally teased her nose as she continued on her silent way through the trees, but it was always an old trail or a rain-washed scent mark. Hunting here was so different from hunting back home on the tundra. It was just one of many things she would have to get used to.

Her unfamiliarity with her surroundings coupled with the noise of the fauna around here and the fact that she was upwind of the hunting wolf left her oblivious to the fact that she was being stalked. Her father, his soul looking down upon her from the stars above, would have been roaring with outrage at his daughter's carelessness. It was something she should have noticed, should have seen or smelled, or felt simply by instinct. She had been trained relentlessly, schooled in the ways of war, battle, and self-preservation. To be hunted by one of her own kind without her even noticing would be the height of shame.

But she continued on, unaware of the beast that lurked in the shadows behind her, calculating the most efficient way to kill her. A fat deerfly buzzed past her and she snapped at it, instantly ending the insect's existence, her hunger driving her to eat anything she could get her teeth into regardless of how badly it might taste. And the fly did taste bad. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head, her tongue running in and out between her teeth repeatedly as she worked to get the bitter taste out of her mouth. It hadn't been worth the hassle or the crappy aftertaste; it wasn't even a speck of a mouthful anyway, she thought as she continued on her way, her mood a shade darker than it had been moments before.

The first hint that something was amiss came when the birds -- whose cheery melodies had sprinkled the warm summer air with delicate beauty, like the daintiest of windchimes -- fell silent. They were aware of what took place beneath their airy perches, and now watched with bated breath to witness how the next moments would unfold. Sigrún paused, wary at the sudden silence, for she knew that it generally meant trouble was fast on its way. Her senses went on high alert, scrutinizing her surroundings for any sign of danger.

She didn't have to wonder for long. From amidst the underbrush and greenery nearby, there came a deep, sinister rumble, a growl of such malevolence that it elicited a visceral reaction in Sigrún. Involuntarily, her hackles bristled as high as they would go, the entire line of her back from mane to tail a stark-white cape of vertical quills. Savage, primal fear tore at her heart and screeched on the inside, urging her to run -- run like she'd never run before in her life -- but the stubborn, proud (and possibly stupid) side of her forced her to remain rooted in place. An instant later, a male voice rumbled from the shadows, as ominous and threatening as the blackest of thunderheads. A nice day for a walk in the woods, it purred darkly, before a white wolf emerged from the foliage. He was quite a bit larger than she, with fur every bit as pristine as hers -- save for a peppering of black on his mane and shoulders -- and simmering amber eyes that gleamed with malice and ill intent. Sigrún did not respond. Her eyes, as hard and frigid as Nordic sea ice, drilled defiantly into his. A harsh growl thundered in her chest before crawling up her throat to burst from her lips in a hideous snarl, and her lip curled upward to reveal a row of savage fangs.