Hushed Willows Is your blood authentic?

wanting to work on trades! down for a hunt — or fight!

Sivaak moved like a shadow through the wood of willows, her beady, crimson gaze fixed on the faint trail ahead. The spike buck had wandered too far from its herd, its sickness weighing heavily on its movements. Each broken twig, each faint hoofprint in the snow, painted a picture of its struggle.

The sharp tang of weakness lingered in the air, mingling with the cold bite of winter. Her breath curled like smoke as she crept forward, the low growl in her throat barely audible. The scent of the buck grew stronger, and with it, the pounding rhythm of her blood. Sivaak thrived on this—stalking the edge of life and death. The hunt.

The woodland was unnervingly still, save for the faint shuffle of the buck ahead. It was close, and she could almost taste the blood that would soon coat her teeth. Her lips curled slightly, the thrill of the hunt sparking a cruel gleam in her eyes, whilst her tongue flicked impatiently across her stained bridgework.

Only something shifted. The air changed—faint and unfamiliar, the musk of another wolf threading through the sharp scent of her quarry. Sivaak froze mid-step, her body stiffening as her ears swiveled sharply. Her jaws parted, a guttural snarl rising from her throat as her crimson gaze snapped around the woodland. She knew she wasn't alone. The presence of another was unmistakable, their scent too close, too bold. Her hackles bristled, her teeth bared into a savage grin.

The spike was hers. Sivaak would make damn sure of that.

The hunter would only catch a glimpse of the scene preceding her presence: the buck slashed in crimson and dark herbal green, its pronged head lowered as if listening; the little patchwork wolf with her muzzle pressed to one of the pale tines, murmuring; the sharp wet scents of crushed flowers and roots in the air.

At the intrusion Anathema looked up, eyes hard and cold. The buck, too, lifted its head — but higher, to the heavens, just for a moment. The beast bellowed into the air and collapsed.

The Anathema stepped back, ears flat. Her lips peeled away from her teeth in silence, eyes accusatory. The pale stranger was an unwelcome interruption. Whatever she'd meant to do was now lost to the winds, much like the fading buck — and Anathema was pretty pissed about it.

Sivaak’s crimson eyes burned as she emerged from the brush, her snarl cutting through the woodland’s eerie stillness. The buck lay weakly, its body crumpled and steaming against the frost. The scent of death—soon to claim the ill buck—mingled with that of the stranger.

Her gaze snapped to the small, patchwork wolf standing over the fallen prey, its teeth bared in a silent accusation.

Sivaak’s lips curled higher, exposing rows of sharp teeth still gleaming with saliva. Her hackles bristled as she took in the scene: the crushed flowers, the strange smells, the way the spike had bellowed before collapsing. It made no sense to her. None of it mattered.

“This is mine,” she snapped out in a half-snarl, vibrating with barely contained fury. She took a step closer, her frame hulking and menacing, claws digging into the frozen earth.

Red eyes.

By the creed of the woman who had given life to The Anathema, red was the color of treachery. Was this truth not written into her very own furs? Stained by the sins of their father, The Hierophant had murmured, though he'd believed none of it. Anathema still wondered.

The woman had interrupted her — but that didn't mean she couldn't still be of use. Her words went ignored, her claim fallen on deaf ears. If she lived, she could have the buck.

Adrenaline jolted through her veins. Silent except her jittery clicking, Anathema lunged to catch her fangs on some soft part of the larger wolf's unders.

Sivaak barely had time to register the lunge before the patchwork wolf was upon her, a flash of movement cutting through the cold. The sting of teeth scraped against her underside, and a snarl ripped free from her throat—a guttural, feral sound that shook in the air.

Her crimson eyes burned with a sudden, wild fury. She twisted sharply, the sheer power of her frame throwing her weight towards the smaller wolf. Her jaws snapped, aiming for the nearest vulnerable point—shoulder, neck, anything to halt the attack. Sivaak’s tail lashed violently behind her, her body a blur of bristling fur and scarred muscle as she pressed the advantage.

Sivaak twisted with a brutal efficiency, shaking off the smaller wolf’s attack like a bear shedding water. The sting of teeth against her underside was a fleeting irritation, replaced swiftly by a chilling, guttural laugh that rolled from her throat.

It wasn’t warm or amused—it was jagged, cruel, the sound of a predator savoring the inevitability of blood.

Her lips peeled back into a savage grin. “Sivaak kill.”

The wolf's teeth tore a searing path through her nape; thrown loose, Anathema retreated several steps. The erratic clicking resumed, punctuated by feral humorless laughter. Sivaak kill.

Kill? She panted, mouth dripping blood. You can do better than that. Taunting even as she retreated a bit beneath the draping trees, still lingering near enough for the stranger to know her as a continued threat. Her nails dug into the earth, paws stained with the same noxious concoction which smeared the buck.

Seaglass eyes gleamed from the shadows of the willows. She waited.

Sivaak’s nose twitched, her crimson eyes narrowing as she pulled back from the fight, blood dripping from her bared teeth. The tang of the buck’s smeared concoction lingered in the air, sharp and unnatural, coiling in her nostrils like a warning. The deer was no longer the prize—it reeked of something twisted, something wrong.

But the girl. The little thing, slick with her own blood and full of defiance, that was another story.

Sivaak’s tail lashed violently behind her as she took a step forward, her breath curling in the cold air. The feral laughter grated on her nerves, the clicking a noise that sent her hackles bristling higher. The patchwork wolf lingered just out of reach, her seaglass eyes gleaming with provocation.

She was taunting her.

Sivaak didn’t need to be goaded—her blood was already boiling, her hunger for the hunt now focused solely on this insolent creature.

Her muscles bunched, her frame coiled like a spring. She charged, powerful strides pounding against the frost-laden ground as she barreled straight for the girl, jaws snapping with brutal intent.