Silver Moraine XVII

The longer they moved, the more settled Sunday Morning became. She was a woman of the present, and in the present, all was as well as it could be. The she wolf did not worry for the future then, as she heard him growl and watched his stride open up to eat away at the distance between himself and his newest discovery. Sunday Morning appeared to be at attention as she watched, ears perked and head aloft. Her tail waved in wide sweeps behind her to watch him move. So swift, despite his size. Sunday Morning preened at her choice. 

Then, she was quick to spring after him.

Her tail waved behind her as they disturbed the peace of their prey. This was the way of things, and this way was good. Sunday Morning would bark loudly to spook the more nervous of them, watching as the numbers in one group thinned. She was not too far from Mountain Boulder. When one bull seemed too testy toward him, she would be swift to distract it with a nip near to its heel. Sunday was light on her feet as she, too, raced away once its attention fell to her for a beat.

The dance of predator and prey caused a huffing laugh to come from her nose. She paused in their game to watch a moment longer, and he returned to her. Her own tongue began to loll in an effort to cool herself.

The she-wolf agreed with her mate in a rumble. The food appeared plentiful, and this was an advantage that her homelands did not have. Not always. But it boded well for the cubs she scented upon his furs already, and if she did carry, for their own as well. The bloodstained rogue sniffed at his furs, loosing an inquiring note as her gaze turned in the direction of the Rise they had headed toward. 

There was already a mother there, which did not worry her with the number of prey she spotted. Her questioning note seemed to ask him, shall we hunt for them? Perhaps not these large beasts, between the two of them. But Sunday would not be merely another mouth to feed for the pack. She desired to hunt with, not be hunted for, for as long as she was able.