Qeya River well, I know what you want from me

he had been watching from shadows which cloaked him. crimson eyes narrowed as she feasts upon that which does not belong to her. on lands which do not belong to her.

but for now he has remained still. patience. timing. he waits.

the wind shifts, carrying his scent. her ears flick, head lowering as if sensing something amiss. too late.

blackfell moves.

he erupts from the brush, snow spraying in his wake. heavy paws strike the ground one after another, muscles coiling along a painted onyx frame and rippling as he lunges. aiming snapping teeth at her flank, her hocks, not meant to land—yet—but to warn.