Whitefish River "brew glory,"

[size=11.6667px]The conversation about scouting was forgotten as the hunt took over. Mouth open to allow the scents to flood against her palate - strengthening their potency - she trotted through the grass, heading south. A warm breeze caught in her fur, bringing with it fresh scents of the herd. [/size]

The dark silhouettes of their neighbours came into view, does grazing as their fawns - juveniles now, their spots gone and budding antlers appearing on some - galloped about in play. A few young stags lingered on the fringes but a prize buck - the patriarch of the herd - wandered, keeping careful watch over his harem and offspring. Liri could not stop a slight smile, for the king of their plateau's herd often reminded her of Kavik. 

"There," Liri nudged Kavik, pointing out one the younger bucks who was lingering hopefully near the does. He had a gash on his left shoulder, crusted and black with dried blood. Likely he'd wandered a tad too close and the stag had taught him a lesson with a sweep of his impressive antlers. 

"You think we can chase him down?" Liri asked Ruenna, remembering the bird's expertise the last time they'd culled a member of the herd.