Bitterroot Valley This used to be the future

She could sense metal in the air and she gagged as the acrid smell burned in her nose, playing against the back of her tongue. It was not the blood of prey— a sweeter smell, perhaps because they did not eat meat— but decidedly wolf in nature. That always made her squeamish, even when it was she that inflicted the wounds. Meteora had mastered the art of "poker face" in those situations, but now that she was no longer... well. Now, it no longer seemed to matter if she showed such weakness or not.

But she had a morbid fascination, desiring to find out if the injured party was okay or if the wounds had been fatal; and, despite her exile, Meteora would never forgive herself if it was a she-wolf— a long lost sister— that she could have assisted but failed to do so. If it were a male, well, the world was better off.

It was some time before the silver female finally spotted the other, and she watched a moment as the other made slow progress forward. Meteora lifted her head to scent the air, eyes stinging as she tasted blood more strongly, attempting to parse out what information she could on the wind... but the wound was too overpowering.