Blacktail Deer Plateau Mouths are dry, river runs

Calahan followed the river upstream. He'd taken time to explore the surroundings of his current range. The Whitefish River neighbored a large plateau. The wind was in his favour, this evening, and it wasn't long until he caught the scent of other wolves. A large group of them, seemingly a local gang. The scent markings on the outskirts of the territory confirmed that. At first, the sepia man was careful not to overstep the markings.

That caution faded, however, once he caught the scent of a recently killed deer. Weighing risk and reward was a difficult choice. On one hand, he wasn't in an ideal condition for a skirmish. His mostly healed fracture still had a sharp ache to it. On the other, this was a chance for a larger meal, something to tide him over for a few days.

The outlaw took the risk, delving deeper into claimed territory, following the scent of the kill.

Massive behind the scenes PP taken here of the pack!

The recent kill had been a spectacle. The Cairn children watched as the adults of Raventhorpe worked together to hunt down and dispatch one of the deer from a nearby herd; a feat of teamwork that inspired the boy. He had watched and learned despite the overwhelming desire to join in, instead obediently staying on the outskirts of the hunt and later helping to drag the carcass closer to the caches – at least, as much as his still-growing self could.

It was no surprise the scent had caught the attention of a hungry loner.

After the pack had eaten their fill, Arrax amused himself with picking at a bone that he had carried away from his pesky siblings should they be tempted to take it. With a full belly and the sunlight warming his fur, he felt himself grow drowsy, until the sudden sound of determined paw steps and a foreign scent jolted him awake.

The boy scrambled to his feet, abandoning his toy and heading to intercept the trespasser like a heat-seeking missile. He spied his tall, cream and cinnamon form through the trees and moved to block his path with a dominant lift of his tail and a warning snarl that rippled from his throat, trying to emulate the leviathan that was his father.

"Stop."

rusalka is a rush of things: and not a single one of them good.

Stop.

little but growing arrax's voice rises thru the trees but rusalka is already barreling towards the trespasser's scent he intercepted on the borders, like a speeding train with no intention of braking.

the few short minutes it takes him to reach them, he is at war with himself: wedged between charybdis and scylla. attack or offer a warning?

knowing that his son is there forces him to lean more towards attack, but it was not protocol. protocol was give a chance to retreat.

he crushes foliage as his approach slows, moving with bared teeth, bristled hackles, raised tail and a low snarl tearing from his throat to stand in front of arrax.

you have one chance to leave my land unharmed. rusalka moves forward then, content to bully the stranger back outside the borders.