Blackfoot Forest Aislingean

Far from the view of the fading stones and rolling green upland, the forest proliferates with a tantalizing prick of blood, clogging the air and her nose with its sweetness. She should be wary in this wood and take the kill as a warning that nearby is it’s master. She maneuvers anyway between the firs, lapping at driveling jowls, expecting to see a fox or coyote or black bear, even.

But it’s a wolf unknown to her, shades of mountain granite and big as one too, a hare settled between his paws. She’d had half a mind to turn back and hunt elsewhere, but decided to push out between the trees with her nose anyway, and make a cautious approach.

“That’s quite a smell,” she comments with a low swing of tail and an amiable show of teeth.