Snowforest Taiga at a loss

A woman who moves like a serpent, low to the ground and shifty. A scent that reeks of coyote and wolf alike. Hawk's one eye hardens, that scowl pulling into a closed-mouth show of teeth. Tail stiffening at her hind, withers pricked and ruffled, still caked with blood that had long since dried. 

Overhead a vulture circles. It feels like an omen—as if this woman was here to walk her into deaths arms. Or here to scavenge off her carcass like the coyote she must be. Either way, Hawk isn't in the mood to entertain her, nor is she willing to greet death. 

"Seems like I already have." Her voice deep, a low growl. Her patience was incredibly thin these days—this woman better tread lightly. "Not in the mood for mongrel games." Hawk rasped. Watching as the vulture both in the sky and near her flank circle.