Whitebark Stream mathron

rolled a succesful attack!

The wraith did not waver. Her gaze lingered, expectant, laced with something that might have been reproach; but it was not her judgment that stoked the cold fire in his veins. No, it was his own; he had read the caribou’s movements, measured the moment, calculated the strike, and yet the beast remained standing. Barely; trembling, its ribs heaving, but standing nonetheless.
Unacceptable!
The bull’s breath came in broken huffs, mist curling from flared nostrils, the scent of blood thick in the cold air. It swayed, legs stiff with exhaustion, yet some stubborn fragment of life refused to release it. A foolish hunter might have lunged, desperate to erase the failure, reckless in pursuit of the kill. But Astier was no fool, even if his last strike made him seem so.
He moved, measured and quiet, a shadow upon the ice. No wasted steps, no unguarded breath. The world narrowed to the space between them; the failing beast and the predator that had already marked its fate. The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring. And then, he loosed; with the precision of a blade finding its mark, he struck. Muscles coiled, unleashing power like a storm breaking over stone. His fangs found the torn flesh of its flank, deepening the wound, twisting, pulling. The beast lurched, a strangled sound rasping from its throat, legs buckled.
Astier did not relent; he shifted his grip, jaws clamping around its throat, the thrumming pulse of life drumming beneath his teeth. A final struggle, a weakening tremor, then; stillness.