Barrow Fields lay your weapons down

Artaax was not usually one for leaving home and exploring, but today, he was agitated. There were too many damn women in the pack with their smells and their bodies, and Niamh had rejected him and there was no one to kill and... Ugh. It all made for a grumpy feisripa, and grumpy fesiripas tended to take their aggravation and channel it into the hunt.

There had been no scent to follow when first he'd abandoned the Cliffs, but one eventually had come to him - just as he'd anticipated. He was just that good, after all. He hadn't completely figured out yet what it was that he was hunting - it smelled vaguely canine, but not wolf or coyote. The memory of the fox kit tickled at his senses, giving him a mental picture of what he was hunting. That old, weird sense of guilt and shame pricked at his stomach. But it was a single pinprick, and then it was gone, shoved deep down and away where it couldn't be a bother to him.

Artaax followed the trail for another ten minutes before it suddenly crossed one that was far more familiar. The hunter froze and looked up with a frown. There was a wolf around here, and it was another damn woman. His lips peeled back in a silent snarl for a flash before he settled his features again into his usual stoic expression and continued to creep around the weird little hills. His intention was to avoid this stranger altogether, but his epic talent for succeeding in every one of his endeavors failed him, and he rounded a particularly large mound to find himself looking the woman squarely in the face, only a dozen or so yards before him.

Damnit.