Altar of Twilight victory does not make us conquerors

Hydra did not look at all unlike a gargoyle, hunkered down in the permanent watch of its domain. Though this Altar was not hers, there she proudly sat poised and observant. All that was below, from this height, looked minuscule—but there would be benefits to sitting patiently and watching, she knew. And one such benefit came now. Out from the forest came a herd, one at a time, suspicious of the open land they broke into. She shifted her weight, cat-like, as she observed their movement. It looked as though their trajectory would lead them to Moonspear. 

But what she truly sought were things that were out of the ordinary. More wolf than one lurking in the wilderness to stake a claim somewhere, perhaps. The familiar cut of one of her old companions coming to investigate the glen when they believed, on a dreary day like today, no one would be watching. 

She could not think they knew better than that. Not in knowing who was among them, and whose lead they followed. 

The other wolf upon the Altar went undetected, for now, given their distance. Her eyes were for the horizon, but as her ear pivoted forward once more the other side swiveled backward. She was very much so present, and her ears sought the sound of the rain, interrupted. Their blunted claws, when the practice was put into it, could be muted—but none could hide from the rain in the open.