Whitebark Stream I'm swept up by the shape of all the centuries

they settle into their positions; only when the flickers of movement from her comrades die down does the woman motion for connor to follow her as they near the herd. "be swift, and avoid the hooves. stay between her and the rest of the herd, I'll maneuver her from behind and the sides." a glance to ensure he's ready, and then, "stay hidden as long as possible, and move when I do." 

the pair creep near, well-disguised by the long-reaching shadows and the natural crests and furrows of the meadow. it is when the linger on the edge of being known that she issues a sharp lash of her tail, and they move. 

together, they rush the herd; connor obeys her instruction well enough. then it is only the thunder of hooves and the dozens of lightning-fast decisions they need to make. she veers back, attempting to make for the herd that charges ahead for higher ground, but her pace is made slow, and she stumbles occasionally. this close, it is easy to see the swelling around that limb that had punctured the ice, the weakness in it. once, she almost slips away; frenzied snarl leaves the woman's lips as she corrects its path. they are near to the treeline, now, though she dare not shift her attention to try and spot the wolves she hopes they're nearing.