Bitterroot Valley she had been forced into prudence in her youth,

mahler watched. there was an aspect distinctly unwolf to the way that imaq darted fearlessly through the long willowed legs with their dangerous hooves. her shorter limbs, more compact body; but he was not in judgement of her, the gargoyle found, only admiration.
she wove a glamour around the one they had chosen, and herded its quickening pace toward the rise. mahler felt each time that this was the true test of his strength; the killing-blow. and each time he was determined to connect, and knew that the first instance in which he did not would be the decline of him: swift and inevitable.
the staccato of hoofbeats rose in his ears and in his blood —
mahler was rising, harsh and terrible, a tower of graphite and ivory;
heavy forelegs around the slender neck, weighted jaws crushing down upon its throat;
pulled onward by the last impetus of the flailing body, hindquarters bunched and claws cutting swathes in the grassy earth.