Bearclaw Valley [M] All Wrong

m for mentions of violence

Warm rays of sunlight occasionally crept through the stifling blanket of clouds; ever-shifting. Not quite so gentle as the soft embrace of another's fur, though it sufficed to offer some solace to the aching limbs of the wretched little maiden. 

Ungrateful still, she'd grumble her displeasure to the empty air. 

She'd caught the scent of other canines in this area, here and there, distant and close, and a reckless part of her had sought it out, no weight offered to the consequence of trespass. It was time to seek a new home. She knew she wouldn't get by much longer, the outline of ribs beneath scrappy silver fur spoke for itself. At the very least, she had skills to offer.

Lain on a small rocky outcropping, she'd allow pale forelimbs to drape over the ledge whilst her chin lay cradled by the harshness of the cold stone. Alone. She was not meant to be. Not built to be. Her mind idled with all the words she longed to pester another's ears with, though they remained unspoken, an eerie silence in their place; beyond the idle thumping of her tail against the rock. At the foot of her claim, she'd keep her maple-touched gaze affixed to the crumpled form of a newborn fawn; one she'd snatched from the grasp of a grazing mother. She was unsure if the tired beast even knew her labours were for nothing; for when she'd come to see her infant tucked away in the bracken, she'll find naught but a trail of crimson and receding imprints in the ground.

Serves it right. A good mother cares for her young. A good mother wouldn't turn her back. 

She'd stare into the ever-fading gaze of the fawn, not yet departed, but certainly on its way. Envy remained poised and eager to see how long it'd cling to survival. She'd left it with injuries of a terrible nature, its inability to fight back only motivating her to further mangle and maul; she'd lacked the knowledge of efficiency, and in its place grew sheer viciousness, anything grasped in pale jaws was simply ravaged, desperately clung onto, yet these wounds... They were more than the results of a lucky hunt, they were methodical; meant to leave room for suffering.

How long would it last? How long would a wolf last with such injuries? Was it possible to reverse such damage? She couldn't know unless she saw. She couldn't be sated unless she witnessed it. She was almost giddy over the prospects. She'd stare at the inflictions of her violence, and yearn to stitch the little thing up and do it all again; though she lacked the supplies in her current state. To simply watch would suffice, for now. Here, with no authority to chastise, her curiosities ran unchecked. If only such freedoms hadn't come with the cost of stable food and company. 

This one was all wrong. She knew it, but did not understand it; for what was she, but passionate? Regardless of the disconnect, she knew at least that she'd need to reign herself in.

Soon, nothing remained of her earlier quarry but a husk; and she'd slip from her perch down to enjoy her meal; satisfaction painted across her features.

YOINK

athalia was drawn forth by the smell of blood.
@Ancelin had been teaching her well. she trusted more in her senses, always watchful, always gathering information wherever she could. she thought he would be proud of her right now, the way her ears instinctively twisted forward and her nostrils flared as she caught the trail.
she is alone when she approaches, shuffling with little thunk thunk thunk sounds as she pads through the half-melted ice and sludge. she can almost taste the warm metal; it excites her. what disappoints her, however, is that there is another here already — a lone girl, hunched over a gurgling, mangled fawn.
the bruingirl stays low for a while, simply watching, letting the strange woman have her meal. she must think she's alone. it wasn't as if the valley was bustling with bodies; it was only she, ameline, and ancelin, for the most part, and that did not exactly scream occupied, keep out! to passersby.
she only gathers the gall to approach when the pale woman begins to wipe the crimson from her face. the gaze of sunglow is heavy, curious, interrogative, though her tail whooshes back and forth at her heels in her typical "friendly" greeting.

he gravely disapproved of this method, as evidenced by how he stared after athalia. but she was getting fairly good at his standards of tracking, weaving in and out of the shadows, melting into blackness to reappear elsewhere.
you know, all the good rogue stuff, a nod to the dad who'd gone and not come back.
whether or not he factored this consciously into anything, it definitely played into his anxieties about being a Good Father.
and athalia wasn't helping!
he was about to call after her when blood raked into his nostrils, and he quickly put together the equation of the fact she'd killed one of their damn deer.
and so he had no issue striding past athalia to thrust his feral face into the greytoned features of the other. "i'd drop that now."
their borders weren't many, but they were noticeable. he wet his jaws, waiting for the interloper to speak as he tried to convey to the bearclaw girl that this is how intruders needed to be treated.

She'd caught a glimpse of a shadow diving betwixt the bracken, and chalked it up to a trick of the mind, though it still prompted her to eat her fill quicker. It wasn't until she'd caught the sound of pawsteps that black-tipped audits would sharply swivel around toward the source; and her gaze would meet that of a girl decorated in hues of ink and ash, draped in a chestnut cape, emerged from the thicket. Owl-eyed, this one stared at her; it brought a grin to the dame's features, and her tail assumed a giddy flick as well.

Though, just as Envy would strive to offer the girl a friendly 'hello', another would burst from the foliage; strong-willed and accusatory.

Limbs would stretch to raise herself from her languid state, as one quickly became two. Of course this one came at her in a less friendly manner. A scoff would rumble within the devil's throat, and roll softly from pale jaws. How sick she grew of gnashing jaws and harsh words; though she'd only seek to match it against all rational thought, a rare thing that did not often cross her mind.

Aww... Must I? She'd pout in a disapproving drawl, clasping what remained of the mangled fawn tighter to her frame and stepping back. Despite physical cues of hesitance, a gaze of muted crimson remained pierced toward that of the other in challenge. She'd make this difficult.