Fox's Glade lush life

small powerplay!

the scent of fear had returned; shardul's lip curled somewhat. but the pup's words were strong. she wished to live, clung to her breath as if she were a limpet. the cat shifted somewhat, mulling her statements about in his head. he, too, glanced toward the trout still holding the marks of her tiny teeth, and let out his breath in a chuff. the flicker of sympathy had not died; rather, it had strengthened, pillared by some level of respect for she who would soon lay dying like a fawn in this brook-marked glade.

perhaps the jackal deserved to live -- he was the decider of this. shardul, the arbiter of fate, the sole judge presiding over the row of death upon which the child sat.

hunt, yes. walk -- not well. not without her fourth limb. shardul met her eyes with a level stare, a decision half-formed, though he breathed not a word of it as he rose to his paws and lowered his muzzle slowly to wrap his jaws around the jackal's nape and shoulders. she tasted of loam and terror; shardul tightened his jaws in anticipation of her struggles and began to carry her across the brook and toward the semi-circle of stone peaks looming distantly.