Altar of Twilight victory does not make us conquerors

Churchill's approach took time. He was careful with each step; calculated in the way he placed his weight on the loamy earth. He had become quite well-versed since dispersing, and he was quite ready to show his worth today— never mind the inclement weather. He descended deeper into his primal instincts, swallowing his thoughts as only one pulse, one chant, began to beat through him.

Hunt. Hunt. Hunt.

He could feel his pulse rising in anticipation, but he thought of it in the way he thought of dismissing a fly from his ear. An annoyance. Something to ignore. The tenseness ebbed and he moved forward again in slow, easy strides. He couldn't hunt with any excess anxiety in him. It would lead to mistakes, and having to do anything over again was a huge pet peeve for the wolf.

When the wind abruptly reverted, he was swept away from his task at hand by the smell of freshly spilled blood. He changed trajectory almost immediately; for what was an easier target than prey already injured? The chant began anew.

Blood! Blood! Blood!

Coming upon the scene, Churchill kept his distance. Luckily for him, the prize was already dead. Unfortunately the carcass was occupied, but he wasn't a rash fiend. The lethal hound loomed on the fringes— visible and inert. He didn't want her to think he'd come to impose. Not before she'd had her own fill anyway.