Grouse Thicket Where the wild things are.

The next few moments were a mess of movement and noise, all of which drew her attention and made her stiff-legged and wary. From the underbrush came a steely figure - ahead of which was some kind of plump bird - and when the target tries to escape the charging wolf appears to have anticipated every movement, every flap of wing or bolt of its little legs, and Stryx watched with mild fascination as the wolf grappled with a wing and snapped it, the sound causing Stryx to flinch.

She was not ignorant to the juxtaposition of her vocation against the needs of her body; she could hunt, she did hunt, and felt little remorse over the deaths of her own quarry. It was the sound of those tiny bones splintering to the scythes of teeth that hurt her, somewhere deep and unexplored. Perhaps her dealings with Raleska had stirred something inside of her - some kind of weakness, one she hoped would be brief. The world was harsh and she had to remind herself of that fact; it was only a bird. A meal for someone in need.

And then he was standing over the bird and breathing hard, pinning it down broken wing and all. Stryx hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until she felt the sting in her lungs and exhaled loud enough for the hunter to take notice of her - and then they stared at one-another, a hesitation. He stumbles, draws in to himself, and gapes.

All she can do is blink owlishly at him for a moment, but then she offers an olive-branch of sorts by saying, Good catch.