Verdant Basin you are a child of the cosmos, and ruler of the skies

The celestial hunter had faced brutal creatures far fiercer than the roseate-touched prowler. The stygian nimbus narrowly disguised himself behind the boughs of the thick boscage that lined the outside of the concavity. In his prowl, the wendigo did not pull his lambent sights from the shape of the moon washed she-wolf. Each step was reckoned, landing only on the soft sands so that he might avoid detection by sound. The starchaser was not keen on capture when he had maundered that far from the clutches of the Mal’um.
 
The voice that snapped was unheralded. Something had shifted in the gales and his rich scent had been drawn to her. He had been faced with far worse a challenge before then.
 
All movement ceased; the swarthy nimbus remained rigidly in his place among the umbrage. His aphotic cloak mingled with the veil of the dark undergrowth. Orion had been born to the nightfall; tenebrosity was so much a part of his ardor that they had adopted the very term as their moniker. The wolves of the night; those who had fallen from the sky. The celestial hunter only longed to return to his perch within the heavens. His heart thrummed with eventide, and though he had been banished to the earth, he still felt the affinity with the void. It was as though the harshness of the sublunary world did not suit his haggard, war torn truss.
 
… if you were planning on ambushing me then you’d better think again!
 
The leer that played at the edges of his sombre expression was life – at least – that had not been there before. The star children did not ambush the Mal’um; their fidelity to the terrene was incomparable. It was almost akin to plucking a shark from the seas and prompting it to contend with the catamount. Both were bestial warriors, but it was foolish to believe an alien to the world would find a modicum of success without having first traveled it.
 
It was then that the phantasm bared her fangs and issued the quiet guttural sound that only predators were capable of conjuring. The wendigo thought to stir and sound his presence, but he was fastened by the claws of dread. If the Mal’um were to bait him and succeed, his trials would have been for not.
 
The nimbus held fast to his fortitude and lingered in his stiff-limbed hunker, waiting for a chance to leap for her back.