Two Rivers Isle he jests at scars that never felt a wound

It was not often the case — in fact it seldom was — but once in a blue moon a hunt unfurled in a way that could not have been more perfectly imagined. It was unexpected when running aside long time packmates whom were in sync with each other; it was doubly unexpected for it to happen when partnered with a complete stranger.

The fawn met its end in the confusion they crafted. His nimble comrade slipped between the deer, snapping at the doe's heels and then thwarting the fawn's attempts to follow. Jagwyr spurred the doe onward with his own snaps; leveraging her mortal fear and panic against her to separate the pair even further. He then spun and rushed the fawn, circling to come at it from its rear quarter while his partner barricaded it from the front.

He did not hesitate to commit to the kill. The black wolf barrelled into the fawn so hard as to knock it over as his teeth clamped shut on its slender throat. Its gargled cry for help stopped up the fleeing doe, who ran back towards the wolves, ears pinned back. She anxiously paced around them, desperate to help her fawn and attempting to push them off her young one. But as the fawn quickly fell limp under the crush of Jagwyr's jaws, the doe backed off.

There was no ceremony, no celebration. Not from Jagwyr, who let the fawn's head thump onto the ground as he got up and moved to the more tender lower belly, where his practiced teeth could split it open quickest and easiest. He shoved his snout into the viscera, seeking out the liver and tripe.

The doe looked on from the distance. Reluctant to leave her offspring even after its death.