Dawn Treader Valley Það svíður mig í augun

The heavens were swathes of colors. Lavender along the horizon's east bleeding into pink, and then buttercup yellow while the west was full of the muted blues of slumber.

The prospect of a hunt had the mountain wolf deviating from her path. She had been watching the begin its climb over the eastern horizon when the scent of an elk danced across her nose. As if possessed, she set after it without a thought. The closer to drew to the source of the smell, the more she could pick up the tang of illness laced in the ungulate's essence.

After a few minutes drifting southward, she came across her quarry. A lone cow—no, it was separated. The huntress could smell the rest of the herd on it. Separated by a predator chasing the herd, she thought.

In its ailed and disorientated state, Arnarkla did not bother with talking the time to stalk and creep to get closer. She approached in a curve at a jog, waiting to be noticed and attempting to get it going in a particular direction. She didn't care to have to cross that river again in the middle of a hunt, nor to have the sun in her eyes.

The cow let out a billow of air, whites of its eyes shining, as it set off westernly. Arnarkla broke into a run.