Greatwater Lake Maybe I'm a different breed

A day has passed since the Dark Mistress forfieted her crown, and she already feels the rising rebellion like fire in her blood, coursing ever so soundlessly but eternally damning through her veins. It is sparked by the hate of those she led, and those who her son now leads, and it is only a matter of time before the fire of her reign travels elsewhere, to a land where she will build an empire to surpass the failure of Blackfeather Woods and those within who call themselves those of the night. She will have her vengeance, for hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. She will be their reckoning, if it is the last thing she does. 

However, in that present moment, she glides effortlessly beyond the dark woods, traveling in search of that she will decorate her land with. Despite the hate she holds for those within, Blackfeather Woods is her land by claim. It is her's and her's alone, despite the title she has no more. Stoic eyes scan, creeping beyond the course her feet take her until the scent of blood and wof draws her near and she watches as a yearling deer suffers the wound of another's doing. It grows tired, waning in the exhaustion of keeping itself afloat and it is evident in the increasing staggering paces it takes. Her jowls salvitate as placid eyes year from the shadows of the underbrush, observing with impatient feet as she ready's herself for the opportunity to strike. Despite the visible brand of another's jaw previously sunk into the beast's neck, prey unattended was free game until the prey itself was finished by the hand of the victor.  Finishing what the other started, her teeth sink victoriusly into the already gaping wound, shoving all her weight into the muscles of her hind as she yanks, pulling the yearling to the ground beneath her feet.

It takes effort, but in mere seconds does its life give out, accepting its fate with a strangled gasp as it collapses at her feet. She licks the blood from her jowls before diving in once more, incisors at use as they work to free head from body. It is not for the sake of meat that she has taken its life, but the blood of which it lets loose; blood that she will remark the borders of her pack with. It is in addition to the heads of their enemies that lay scattered on the bloodied line in warning of what lay beyond (including that of her sister), but her kill nonetheless. With a final yank do the last strands snap and free the appendege which she so uncermoniously tosses aside. For her attention has shifted, it is the hair-raising feeling of a presence lurking in the shadows from which she came that causes her to freeze, standing upright as her peripherals scan the forest line awaiting the introduction of another nearby.

She is not a woman to be snuck upon; her fury is one that is even more malevolent than the the omnious bloodied pawprint on her shoulder. A rummble of warning egnites in her lungs, growning in strength and in indignation as she calls out those who linger beyond.