Silvertip Mountain after dark

He was gone. Tonravik waited, but no sound of hoofs could be heard; but she does not shift, so very sure that she would hear them come. There was nothing, and then there was a sound of which she had never heard the likes of. For a minute longer, she remains crouched, but there is chaos heard, and so she rises, wondering if the other had gotten himself hurt, if that was what the sound was for—

But there is the familiar song of victory, and Tonravik remains still for a moment, wondering... ah, it was possible; she had done it before, but did he not know that they were to do this, together? Tonravik moves toward the source of the sound, moving without regard of her trail; she bounds upward, muscles rippling throughout inky furs as she hoists herself up and over ledges until in time, there he is, atop the kill.

And there is Skyfall. She was not at all angered by his delay; he had not known, there had been no notice. It would take time, to acclimate; but they were pack, and they would get used to it. She notes the fish in between his jaws, and licks her chops, glad for them, for him. The question asked is answered as she nears the wolf, insisting physically that this being is with them, now. Pack. She gestures toward the goat. Ours.

Her tail waves, appreciative, pleased, as she looks to the dead beast. She drifts forward, tail lifted, moving to go in on the meat without delay, issuing a warning growl to Hunter to watch for her fangs. There was enough for three, enough to be shared among her pack, that there need not be any squabbles. This was theirs. Sisamat tears into the thing, seeking the liver, her favored part.