Dragoncrest Cliffs jungle bird

As soon as the dappled she-wolf erupts does he act in kind, billowing onward to press at the middle. Some take to stotting right away while others run. None are stupidly belligerent. Not with two established hunters at their spurs and positively not on their land.

They scatter, diffusing wonderfully under the onslaught. This splinter is diminutive compared to others herds. You would not know that up close with the terror egressing from their frost-rimed bodies.

The outermost segments bolt and the core either goes with the rest or alters course. Natjuk spots the outstretched limb of one deer. It locks some milliseconds too late; as if recovering from some clandestine ailment. Through the scurrying chaos, he managed to see that. He often relies on scent rather than sight when it comes to hunting. How he picked up on that flaw is an undeniable miracle.

But it is far from over. The doe in question is more than capable of escape.

Natjuk barks, indicating he has found their best bet. Mustering up enough reserve to come upon her, he bites. He snags the back of the doe's right thigh, teeth slicing ineffectively. The nip does not maim, only mark a harmless slit on her meaty haunch; a promise of things to come. Unable to keep up the blistering pace, he hangs back to regain what he's lost.

So far, so good.