Overture Downs ✢ Tipvigut

coväh is a shadow slipping through the undergrowth, every step measured, every breath drawn slow and steady. his focus is singular—the calf, nestled in the brush, foolishly still while its mother grazes, unaware.
he lowers his body, coiling tension beneath his muscles, waiting for the right moment. patience is key. a reckless lunge would only send the herd scattering, leaving him with nothing but the bitter taste of failure.
the wind shifts, carrying a scent unfamiliar, sharp beneath the musk of elk. not from the herd. not from the land.
his ears twitch, but he does not turn. not yet. let them watch. let them wait. he is hunting, and if they are foolish enough to think they can take from him, they will find he is just as sharp-toothed as they.