Dawnlark Plains woman king

Had Warbone been witnessing the actions of this wolf for the past several days— from the tireless driving of the grandfatherly buck towards his demise, to her quick, purposeful eating— he would have thought that he was hallucinating, watching a shadow of himself return to the condemning life of a loner. He had survived it, of course, and he was confident that he could again, but there was a sense of chaos and unrest in being a lone wolf that he would rather do without. The constant need to move and to assure his survival through a cyclical range of motions. Eat, drink, sleep, eat, drink, sleep. The fact that he still had his own life was more of a testament to his ability to judge a task by the amount of risk it presented him with versus the amount of satisfaction he would earn by doing it.

He did such a thing now, as he followed the scent of blood and was eager to put something on his stomach for the return to Sleeping Dragon. He weighed what he could see ahead of him— a large, pitch wolf eating at a grandfatherly buck— to how hungry he was and how necessary it might be to approach this wolf and its apparent kill. The meat had no scent of rot to it, so either she had an unseen accomplice, or it had collapsed very recently on its own. Warbone wasn't starving, and with a purpose in the back of his head that he should return to his own territory, he didn't see a reason to intrude.

He stood a third of football field away, watching for a while longer (lest an opportunity for something present itself) before he would move on.