Bitterroot Valley Exit, Pursued by a Bruised Ego

The signal.

When Sega moved, Barrett did. In sync, the hunters of the Great Sky, moving forthwith in great speed, great stride and strength, causing uproar and hoof-scatter in the herd in which they targeted. He rode in from the left, snapping his jaws, driving them northbound, as Sega had told him to be so. And as the herd ran ahead, fear and instinct fueling their powerful bounds, one fell behind. The weakest of the herd.
A single word fell upon his ears. A command. So, Barret would oblige. In a single bound, he surged forwards, jaws clamping around the leg of the elk. A puncture wound; scarlet dribbling down. And he pulled back, attempting to slow the beast as they ran—and it flailed, pushed, fought back and tried to survive, as all living things did, but it did not understand the greater purpose it was meant to serve.
The cycle of life that they all must obey.
He released the elk, now, regaining his energy for just a moment before he would push on further. For a moment, he would try to run alongside it. Try to get an opening. Faithful that Sega would take her down, with him. A newfound brothership.
Forged from this hunt alone. And many more to come.