Deepwood Weald Lovec netvorů

These lands stretched endlessly, as he had witnessed during his ascent of Silvertip Mountain. Such vast expanses brimmed not only with seething, teeming packs but also—above all—with formidable predators. Wolves were not the sole creatures to make the earth tremble beneath their prey’s feet, and Frenū had long since learned to strike fear into even the most fearsome of hunters. It was in his blood, woven into the fabric of his culture—it had even become a sport.

For days now, he and his quarry had been locked in a relentless game of cat and mouse. The small yet powerfully built man tracked with unwavering focus, his keen senses ever attuned—the scent carried on the wind, the subtlest rustle in the undergrowth, the faintest clue left in the wilderness. His prey had left many traces in its wake, soon tangled with the countless tracks of prowling wolves, rendering the pursuit all the more intricate. But Frenū welcomed the challenge. Hidden in the brush, he moved with remarkable stealth, his presence scarcely more than a whisper against the land. For one of his stature, it was a wonder—to be so deft, so poised, so utterly silent…

He was not the only hunter to stalk the deepwood.

Pangur too looked for something worthwhile, a challenge to shake up a bored spring morning. The wolves of Forneskja could have used some meat for the coming journey, though it was not far.
Peachy paws skipped quietly through the forest, birdsong from the treetops building a sweet melody on the breeze, one tuned out as the Náttfari searched for sounds of a more rewarding nature, called on the gods to show her where a bounty lied; the bugle of an elk in the distance, the creaking of trees and rustling of leaves as they blew across the ground.
Her focus was unbroken as she tasted the air, she did not notice the quiet man who skulked through the thicket.

He had indeed taken notice of her, for she had suddenly emerged into his field of vision. Moving with quiet intent, he drew closer—not to startle her, but in the seething, watchful woods, discretion was always wiser.

You smell it too? he asked at once, his nose testing the air. Amidst the wolves and the prey, there was this huntress: a young female cougar, light of frame yet no doubt already formidable.

You hunt? He passed her by, then, with a slight tilt of his head, beckoned her to follow.

sorry for the wait!!

A stranger to shake up the day! and Pangur found herself glad for it, two hunters had better chances than just one; as always, the gods provided. She skipped along after him as he gave some invitation, light feet skimming the prints left behind.

Ja, I hunt. You share? She queried with a grin, her tail swishing, a broiling anticipation building in her limbs, in the hot blood as it coursed through her, energy just waiting for direction.

Faced with the fervent spirit of his newfound companion-in-arms, Frenu could only feel a surge of exhilaration. He had always relished camaraderie—and that primal, creeping instinct of the hunt that slowly veiled the minds of both predators. Had they not been in the midst of a silent stalk, he might have loosed a deep, guttural laugh to mark his joy. Instead, he offered a broad, toothy grin.

I share! he said, giving her a hearty shoulder bump before falling into stride beside her. And we will share the scars, sister!

It promised to be a hunt to remember—a confrontation fit for legend. Already, he was on the move, muzzle close to the earth, every sense sharpened to a blade’s edge, seeking the cougar who, on this day, would stand as their adversary—the third gladiator in this feral trial…

The trouble with beasts like that, of course, was that they often forced one to reconsider just who was the hunter… and who the hunted.

@Moro? I summon the demon!

Mountain cat.

Age old rival. Maybe she would take this ones skin as her mother did with the very beast she was named for. Cougar hide to line her den... Pangur felt the burning of old wounds beneath her fur, pretty peachy forelimb only just healed from her last tussle with one of these cats.

Already she wanted another, come get your rematch, kitty.

The golden girl followed suit, quieting her words so that they might've gained some advantage. She spared a glance his way, anticipatory, but she would have to make introductions later. There was glory to be won.

one joins the other; two shadows stalking under thin silhouettes of aspen. moro’s tail twitches in irritation.

 one dog is insult enough. two present a problem. 

she flicks a blade of grass from sleek pelt and resumes her prowling among a knoll’s slope, taking the damper route where she hopes the dogs might slip and drown if fortune favors her.