Blackfeather Woods most times, a ghost is a wish

astara’s eyes — shark eyes for all their aubergine hue — settled on the curled form beneath their feet. rent with submission, it looked pitiful — and the nightcub scarcely hid the cold disdain that tranversed her features. 

her dam and wintersbane were merciful under the supine fold of the wolf’s submissive posture. they stepped back, and her mother mouthed her generous decree. 

astara spared the interloper no such mercy. 

silent as cold descending a chilly night, astara lunged for the she-wolf’s haunch in a thirsty bid of violent superiority. astara was a wolf, not a weakling — and her fangs sought to sink deep into flesh and deliver the last word in the form of a brutal, hateful snap designed to incite deep and unrelenting pain. and if she hit flesh, she would not just bite — she would shake, with a crocodilian maneuver back and forth until blood whetted her tongue and heightened her senses. 

once — and if — her fangs found the insensate and stupid creature, astara would spring back like a shadow shown the light; the malicious gleam in her gaze still lingering, still hungry as she watched her packmates escort the creature outside of their realm.