Honeyed Pasture in the big rock candy mountains, there’s a land that’s fair and bright

All welcome! Pack hunt, anyone?

NOTE: Each of the traveling threads is a day apart. ♥ This is day two, March 22, 2017.

The soft, tortured lowing of a wounded prey animal broke the early evening silence, piquing Lotte’s interest. Almost immediately, a clenching gurgle of hunger morphed into a vicious cramp that she bit her lip against, swinging her broad muzzle toward her abdomen in mute discomfort. Several other Teaghlaigh members had also heard the call, but in the semidarkness they were silhouetted against the dying sunset and were virtually indistinguishable by sight alone. Banríon said nothing, but drew her tongue pointedly across her jowls as she rose and stretched. This far along in her pregnancy, she didn’t exactly feel like leaping through the air and latching onto a large ungulate, but she could ambush and herd as well as any.

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The pack moves in unison to their new home, but their progression is aching slow and it stokes the restlessness within the feral Cathan. The feral Commander has not made any attempts to be subtle about his displeasure at this hand. He bears his teeth and snarls low in his throat any time he is near the pair responsible for this. Nor does he help the their spawn. He would sooner kill the little bastards than help move them. So he does not help. Instead the enforcer keeps his distance and sticks close to his brother and August which their fierce queen has allowed to be theirs…(his). Declan’s obsessions calm him, keeping the feral in tentative chains. Chains which threaten to snap beneath the force of his thrashing. He is sick of harboring wolves that had endangered The Family. He is tired of suffering while they get off with a slap on the ass and a “don’t do it again” and his intense stares that would burn Ceannasach — if Declan had the ability to burn with his gaze — make his thoughts clear without him needing to speak. That is not the Ceannasach he knows. That is not a Ceannasach he will follow.

He hears the low, tortured noise from a nearby ungulate and moves from his bed among August and Conan to join the pregnant queen at her side. She may call him Comhlach but he is Commander still in his mind. He does not like changes to the hierarchy he has established where he reigns at the top as the dominate. So despite the trouble it will cause him he ignores where Teaghlaigh ranks him currently. He lets out a low grunt as his burning amber gaze scans for the injured ungulate, salivating against the promise of a kill and a full belly.

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Among the wolves of Teaghlaigh there was an unease. It was expected, in a sense, of the creatures forced to flee for the sake of their upcoming puppies. It was for the ones already here too, but still, Hemlock was uncomfortable with the notion of how she felt on them. She heard the cry of the ungulate the same as many others did - heads snapping up in attention of the chance for a real meal and not just the smaller scraps they'd gathered on their way. Hemlock approached the Banrion, shoulder briefly rubbing hers before she approached the male who'd seemed to come to the call too - Declan, she thought, and brushed against him briefly in passing. 

She'd be certain to clean herself up and mask herself properly once the night had passed and they were on the move again but she would not move until the next morning. Tonight she wanted to run with her wolves, she wanted to reacquaint herself and she wanted to be one with Teaghlaigh. In such a tumultuous time who could fault her that?

Potentially a cameo!

Pendragon has not been sleeping much. The group stops from time to time, enough to rest the children and give the pregnant queen some respite, but he does not. It seems to him that the world is too dangerous (for the time being) and someone must keep a heavy vigil; so he does, keeping to the fringes, scouting ahead from time to time, but rarely sleeping more than an hour or two.

It is heavy and dark when he rouses from a quick nap, and when Pendragon looks around he recognizes none of the faces. He must remind himself he is with Teaghlaigh, that this is not the Vale, that he is a knight and not a prince. Once his hesitation clears and he has gotten to his feet, the sounds of running catch in his ears. He follows at a brisk pace. From a safe distance doe she stop and watch, for Arturo's wolves have begun to follow the queen, and Pendragon is unsure why.

He does not join them outright, but follows in the dark, as he has been for the past few days.

Why can I not just [at]pack all of Teaghlaigh? That would be so nice.

Argent eyes flicker toward Declan, and Lotte curls her lips briefly to reveal a glint of alabaster fangs — a reminder to the feral Cathán of her rank — but then she pointedly takes a step back. With a significant nod and an almost imperceptible lowering of her broad muzzle, she gives command of the hunt to the Comhlach.

Eagerly now, the Banríon welcomes Hemlock, whiskers quivering as she levels her weight on her hindquarters and playfully snakes her chin and throat across the wise woman’s crimson-furred upper back. Her maw parts to nibble companionably at the ruff where the slope of neck meets crest of shoulder, and then Lotte draws back to utter a low, guttural chuff. They need more — specifically, more muscle. Normally, Lotte would be eager to fulfill such a role; she is a large, athletic wolf. With Arturo’s children growing within her, though, she knows that leaping, shaking, and possibly being kicked could spell disaster.

She issues another imperious chuff, the call of her stomach the hunt too urgent to ignore.

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And then they all got together and killed an elk and it was great.