The Wall Toome

Syncing their steps is sacrilege. She would not stave the curl of lip or sulfurous flaring gaze in his appeals for engagement. She would not enjoy the pleasures of hunting alongside this ridge; not like she had in Big Sky.
She was wary of his reprimand. So much so that she followed each of his movements from the corner of her eye, parrying them with a pivot aside. A flinch.
But even she faltered to weakness and hunger, lapping diligently at slaver when deer-scent ladened the air. She might have crouched beside him eagerly then, tracing those familiar hind contours from their cover beneath a row of spruces.
By Wide Fang’s hesitation, he seemed keen on allowing her a lead. If it was a trap, Ayovi gave no time to its contemplation, instead settling the weight of her chest into feet, claws bracing against hard-packed snow. Then she vaults– blindly, impatience making her careless.
She makes a rabid dash for the doe’s hind, managing a few tugs before being kicked on the cheek, hoof slashing something hot into the side of her face.