Blackfoot Forest misery

Týr had not meant to allow the sickly fawn - a scrappy little thing that had bleated pathetically, calling to the Nord’s attention as he scouted the territories near Swiftcurrent Creek - to lead him so far from Swiftcurrent’s borders. It was a substantial combination of predator instincts and resolute unwillingness to pass up what he considered the perfect prey. The fawn was obviously not the healthiest of it’s herd and had either been left for dead or wandered too far away. It was enticing and Týr was determined he would bring it back to Swiftcurrent Creek for the caches, eager to fulfill the task Fox required of him. Perhaps there lingered a touch of reckless abandon in the combination as well as he raced through the darkening lands, the shadows blurring as he pushed himself off an outcropping of rock with a soft grunt, sides heaving with each heavy, stifled pant. Crystal blue eyes scoured the dark forest viciously as the Viking caught the silhouette of his fawn. For a sickly thing Týr had to reluctantly admit that it was agile and swift, nevertheless. Cloaked in the grasping shadows, coat splashed with drying mud - useful for masking his scent - Týr patiently lowered himself betwixt a rotten log and another boulder, moving akin to army crawling wiggling his body (an impressive feat given his bulk) past the tightest part of his hiding place for the fear of getting potentially stuck on take off.

Breath trickled from between lips softly, eyes glowering in the abysmal darkness that had as the sun had set into the horizon, swallowed the forest whole. Nostrils twitched as a pungent odor filled them, wafting over the scent of dampened forest and the fawn, his fawn. He recognized it as belonging to foxes, the sneaky bastards they were. Eyes roved the darkened shadows furiously, nostrils flaring angrily as a eerie cry rang out in the distance, causing the hairs along his nape to stand on end. Crystal blue eyes snapped back to the fawn that stood, frozen, ears erect, body trembling slightly. “Neinn, neinn, neinn…,” If they were coming for the fawn then they would ruin everything - though the way it currently appeared to Týr they had intentions of ruining it anyway. Their calls were spooking the fawn and it would take off further into the forest. Another eerie call broke the silence of the forest, closer this time. The fawn took off and with a snarl of irritation Týr leapt after it, large paws carrying him closer to it, teeth snapping for it’s hind legs. His teeth were mere inches from it when it veered off right suddenly, and Týr careened attempting to follow but stopped when he realized he had lost it in the tangled maze of the unknown forest, though if the yips and barks of the foxes were of any indication he had pushed his prey right into their paws.

A angry huff left the Viking’s lips as he, grudgingly, accepted defeat. Now he had to attempt to find his way back out and head towards Swiftcurrent Creek with nothing to show for his efforts of the day.

As some times he tended to be, the creeper sat motionless in the shadows somewhere to the Lambda's left as he began his miserable retreat back to the Creek. He had followed the male at a safe distance, incredibly careful to keep downwind of him and his designated quarry. Now the reason he had chosen to hunt the hunter had been entirely out of envy at first—still mulling over this young male calling Fox his "queen"—but eventually his foolish jealousy had turned to curiosity; so he watched Sveinn hunt with yellow, judgmental eyes.

When the milk-chocolate brute had lost his prey to this noisy forest Haunter hadn't visited since the first time, he didn't find the joy he thought he might in the male's loss. His one ear twitched, and though he had the capacity to be smug about the situation, instead he spoke languidly from his vaguely concealed spot, only able to be seen if one were looking and had noticed his bright eyes. "You might have caught it, if you weren't prone to hesitation," he told the young wolf.

Týr had not taken notice to the shadow observing him, for the forest was full of shadows, shallow and deep, and in the cover of the darkened foliage failed to see the sunflower yellow eyes that would have, otherwise, given Haunter away. The loss of the fawn was disappointing, and the weight of his failure hung heavy in the young Nord’s breast. Ragnar would have not let the deviant thieves take his meal, but, Sveinn had observed that his father had a sort of …reckless abandon, and while Týr himself had found himself doing reckless things - just as any other would - he was more …dignified than his father. Defeat had been handed unto him in a corroded platter and he was left with no choice but to chalk it up as it was: a loss. Mistakes had been made, and now, Týr was forced with identifying them, observing them, and learning from them. With an annoyed flick of his tail the young Viking turned and began to trudge through the tangles of webs, roots and earth. A pause was given only when a voice called out to him from the shadows.

Pupils enlarged within their pools of crystalline irises as the silver marked royal peered over his shoulder, nostrils flaring to inhale the familiar scent of the Creek and a scent he briefly associated as Haunter though their meeting had been short lived for Fox had shooed him off; finding the tell-tale eyes that he had missed earlier. He nearly had an urge to inquire of the shadow cloaked man how long he had been there, but the sentence had told Týr exactly what he had wanted to know. A while. Or at least long enough to watch Týr fail. Týr’s ears burned beneath the short chocolate fur that covered them, whiskers trembling as he sucked in a deep breath of damp earth, woods, and the metallic and pungent scent of the butchered fawn the foxes were feasting upon.

“I was watching to see what it would do,” Týr commented, disliking the whole ‘prone to hesitation’ remark that had slipped from the other; however Týr remained determined not to let it show how that had gotten beneath his skin. “Mistakes are healthy now and again, to remind us to be humble about our abilities,” He spoke how he thought and shrugged simply. “I will hunt twice as much to make up the loss.” It meant more work, but now Týr had to push himself because his failure had been seen by another, because he felt a pang of jealousy, embarrassment, and an urge to show that he was better than his mistake.

When the male answered, it was to say something that Haunter had already been made aware of, and then to further spew some nonsense about how mistakes kept a wolf humble. Haunter didn't see how this was related to feeding one's belly, as his own philosophy regarded a "mistake" as something to experience and suffer through only so that you wouldn't do it again. There was a mocking glint in the inky monolith's yellow eyes, but to Sveinn it would read as something like mild interest due to his generally lank expression. He was further irritated by the yearling's last words, but his expression didn't change and he had been wholly silent up to this point.

"Humility has nothing to do with hunting," he said after an uncomfortably pregnant pause. "And overworking yourself won't solve your problem either." He stared at the chocolate subordinate, wondering if he would be further offended or if he wanted to actually learn something. Neither choice would bother Haunter in the least.