sometimes quiet is violent

Junkyard Dog was pleased with her victory. The borders were not far, now, and she had her spoils in hand. She would succeed here where they had not before, back in the Bypass. Now she knew that the key to success was silence, a quick in and out with one single dog. Soon she would be at the borders, into open lands. Not long from now she would eat her meal and find a place to take her final rest. She was content, though afraid.

Or so she thought, until a hulking beast of a wolf arrived. In her less than lucid state, he appeared larger than any beast ever could be, towering among the rising trees. Junkyard Dog quailed at his arrival, skittering away from her path before fear rooted her to the spot. Every muscle was tense, staring at him with wide eyes. "Leaving," she said, dropping the rabbit at his feet. Then she straightened up, hoping to edge around him. If all went well, perhaps he would allow her to leave unscathed. This was not the death she wanted. If she had to forgo the meal, so be it, but she would die on her own terms, and not at the hand of the beast before her.