Bearclaw Valley tamerlane

There was something about the thrill of the hunt that was madness-inducing. All the rules were different out here. Bloodlust seemed like a thing most wolves could only accept in the hunt; perhaps that was it. The desire to see the blood of their prey burst forth from its body, the desire to be bathed in it — if not only to feed, for many of them — but the desire was there and it seemed a moment when all wolves agreed on one thing that they were otherwisely so divided on:
Killing is good.

With the wicked smile on her face the lithe priest danced through the snow, her form almost ethereal, as though she left no footprints at all, made little impact on the snowy palette she danced through. She followed the mighty bull, who had its role to play in this game. Of course it did not give up without a fight — of course! — but that was part of the game itself. A willing victim was no fun.

Life danced in her mortal eyes, losing their ghostliness but for a moment, when she snapped at it and felt but for a moment her teeth connect to its leg. Not what she intended — too close, perhaps — but she had not felt this sort of connection to her mortal body and soul for a long time when she then had to duck to avoid a kick in the teeth. She avoided, though felt the rush of the hoof past her fur.

Taking more distance would have been wise, but her bloodlust was fully awakened now and so she stayed at her risky distance.

She was Sithis', and only death could end this game and the bloodlust he fueled her mind with.