Deepwood Weald I don't like walking around this old and empty house

there is an instinct shared amongst all wild things. it is the prickle of foreboding, the itch of warning that prey feel when they are chosen for the slaughter. it is a rare boon granted them in a world that oft wants to see them dead, and it is this Vuk feels now. at first it is foreign; young, sure, predator, she's not felt this before. but it allows her just enough warning to prepare, should she have been smart enough to listen to the intuition. she is not and she does not, proceeding stubbornly forward. if someone is there, she's not going to hang around and wait for them to show themselves. she's done nothing wrong, surely, and soon enough the itch lessens. still, she hums under her breath now, and she moves with a forward tilt toward where surely the rock must end.