Overture Downs ✢ Tipvigut

AW!

the wind was sharp, biting at the exposed skin of his nose as he prowled forward, low and deliberate. ahead, the herd moved in slow waves, their breath curling in the early morning air like ghosts retreating from their slumber.
coväh's ears flicked forward, his eyes sharp with intent. the elk were moving toward the tree line, their hooves crunching softly over frost-bitten ground. he had been tracking them since dawn, shadowing their path, waiting for the moment when opportunity would present itself.
they were fat from a long summer, thick with the weight of survival. a good kill here would mean more than just a full belly—it would mean trade, favor, security. he could already taste it on his tongue.
his muscles coiled beneath his sleek coat as he skirted the edge of the clearing, keeping himself downwind. his breath was steady, measured, his movements precise. there was no room for error.
golden eyes flickered from one elk to another, seeking weakness. an old bull, scarred and slower than the rest. a limping cow, favoring one of her hind legs. he clicked his tongue against his teeth, thoughtful.

While the wolf ahead tracks the herd, the wildling has taken to tracking the wolf. Herself, a lone yearling, was hard-pressed to hunt any such large prey, but perhaps if she follows him long enough he would make a kill. And then Steltella could snatch it from him with those sharp teeth of hers.

A myriad of possibilities flooded her mind as she bounds easily through the snow. The man must be confident in his ability to hunt if he is testing the herd without a pack - or perhaps he is alone too. Lifting her nose, she could scent no others in the vicinity nor on his pelt. But she is new here and knew not which packs lay claim where. This stretch of land, however, appears free from consistent wolf trails.

Her tail stands at half-mast as she trails behind him, watching, waiting to see if he'd make a move on the elk.

coväh is a shadow slipping through the undergrowth, every step measured, every breath drawn slow and steady. his focus is singular—the calf, nestled in the brush, foolishly still while its mother grazes, unaware.
he lowers his body, coiling tension beneath his muscles, waiting for the right moment. patience is key. a reckless lunge would only send the herd scattering, leaving him with nothing but the bitter taste of failure.
the wind shifts, carrying a scent unfamiliar, sharp beneath the musk of elk. not from the herd. not from the land.
his ears twitch, but he does not turn. not yet. let them watch. let them wait. he is hunting, and if they are foolish enough to think they can take from him, they will find he is just as sharp-toothed as they.

The elk begin to disappear into the trees, and Steltella thinks the man foolish for letting them. In the twists and turns of a forest, it would be harder to track the movements of the herd, harder to dodge a stray hoof and harry a cow until she staggers. 

But she sees promise in the confusion too. A chance to remain unseen. She loses sight of the wolf then, and to her frustration, the wind now ruffles her fur from behind. Her cover is likely blown.

Hunger forbids her from leaving, however, and she settled in a stiff crouch as ears cup forwards to listen for any signs of a struggle.

he moves like water, silent and sure. the calf lingers too long in the bush, separated from its mother, and that’s all the opening he needs.
coväh strikes fast, fangs sinking into tender throat. there’s barely a struggle—just a sharp, startled cry that dies as swiftly as it begins. blood fills his mouth, warm and rich, the taste of victory.
he lifts his head, calf limp between his jaws, and that’s when he sees her.
a shadow among the trees, stiff and watching. not part of the herd. not his.
his ears twitch, but he doesn’t drop his kill. instead, he straightens, eyes narrowing with something between amusement and warning. caught you.

A sharp cry in the near distance has her dig her heals into the frost in preparation to move. It sounds small - not the bellow of a cow or the roar of a bull - and Steltella is sent back to her first months of life. A fawn.

Her mouth waters at the thought of fresh meat, and now the breeze shifts again and carries with it the tantalising smell of blood. She could wait no longer, but just as her hindquarters tense to intercept the man comes into view.

And stares. 

Taken aback, she drops to her belly and slithers up to him, tail buffeting the ground. Give it to me!

coväh stiffens, eyes narrowing to slits as the grey woman with ember eyes approaches, slinking low, her tail churning up frost. his grip tightens on the limp calf, blood still warm between his teeth.
he does not yield.
his ears flick, the only sign of consideration before a guttural growl rumbles deep in his chest. a warning. this is mine.
the meat is fresh, the kill clean, and he will not part with it so easily. a shake of his head, slow and deliberate, sends loose strands of fur and sinew scattering into the snow. his stance is rigid, muscles tensed beneath his coat, ready to defend what he has claimed.
she is younger, but he does not underestimate her. hunger makes even the meek bold. but so does foolishness. another huff from his nose. get one yourself.

he can be persuaded smirks