Whitebark Stream I'm swept up by the shape of all the centuries

the doe is stopped, then, by the combined efforts of the three that move as one to stop her in her tracks. the taste of blood, the surge of adrenaline that comes with the knowledge that this soon will be over. in a moment, she and connor catch up to the ailing thing, the bleats a familiar sound. her aim is the flank; connor gets there first. unwilling to crowd him, and faced suddenly with a dead-end, she spins back, target then the opposite flank and heaving side. 

a wild kick, a connection, a brief burst of searing pain along her chest. she grunts, falls back only a moment, recovering breath lost, and then the huntress moves to sink her jaws into the deer's side. something gives, and under the combined weight of the pack the doe falters, that fierce desire for life beginning to crumble as she hemorrhages into the snow. 

and then, she is dead. life fades from her suddenly, as the pack struggles for dominance. the leader's breath comes ragged and bloodlust blooms, pain and victory coming in equal measure as she tears swiftly into the flank where she'd made her grip, her bloodlust restrained for a moment as she howls their victory, issuing an invitation for the hungry.