Duskfire Glacier The Fall of the House of Usher

Her heart leapt when Tulukiri agreed. Her drooping tail began to wiggle and an immense feeling of gratitude washed through her. When the yearling threw out another nickname, “shadow,” then motioned for her to come along, Masque obediently fell into step behind her.

She thought about the pack hunt, back at the height of summer. She had been terrified by the sheer size of the elk. But she had been smaller then, less seasoned. She was hardly worldly now but Masque had come a long way in building her hunting experience.

Not much, she answered modestly, maintaining a trot and looking keenly ahead, ignoring the slightly painful slosh of water in her belly, with actual large prey. But I stalk, she admitted, a lot.

In fact, nearly all her time was spent skulking around the rise. Even when she wasn’t actively trailing a pack mate or observing prey, Masquerade made a point to move about as stealthily as possible. It was second nature by now, actually. And she thought that might come in handy today.