Lost Creek Hollow There's delays on the planes out of Eastern Montana

of course <3! ty for joining.

drífa's ear flicks, slow, like the twitch of a blade just before it bites. she doesn’t turn. doesn’t break her prowl. the calf still lingers ahead—legs too long, steps too loud, the weight of its ignorance thick as blood in the air.
but she knows.
someone watches.
the presence behind her is not the wind nor the quiet murmur of prey. it is heavier. wetter. foreign. she tastes lakewater on it, something cold and brine-laced despite the sweet stink of spring’s rot all around. a swimmer. a stranger. and still—her paw does not pause.
this is her prize.
earned in silence. tracked with care. the blood of the fjords ran through her, not for mercy or sharing, but for claiming.
and yet—
she feels no threat.
her gaze sharpens. her spine tightens. she slides through the brush like shadow over snow, breath low and coiled in her chest. but when she moves, it is not to ward him off. not yet. her kill is near, and her body speaks what her mouth never would:
stay out of the way, or pull your weight.