Hushed Willows Is your blood authentic?

The hunter would only catch a glimpse of the scene preceding her presence: the buck slashed in crimson and dark herbal green, its pronged head lowered as if listening; the little patchwork wolf with her muzzle pressed to one of the pale tines, murmuring; the sharp wet scents of crushed flowers and roots in the air.

At the intrusion Anathema looked up, eyes hard and cold. The buck, too, lifted its head — but higher, to the heavens, just for a moment. The beast bellowed into the air and collapsed.

The Anathema stepped back, ears flat. Her lips peeled away from her teeth in silence, eyes accusatory. The pale stranger was an unwelcome interruption. Whatever she'd meant to do was now lost to the winds, much like the fading buck — and Anathema was pretty pissed about it.