Altar of Twilight victory does not make us conquerors

The rain fell freely, albeit lightly, though it was not difficult to navigate through; Hydra picked her way along the familiar terrain of Altar of Twilight. Moonspear offered the best views within the Valley, but she ranged beyond to investigate what lay just outside. She had not forgotten her father advising she expand her patrol to inform him if she had seen any of the wolves that might follow Rannoch that sought to claim hunting grounds they were unwelcome to, and that she readily did. She had informed her mother and father of her interaction with Terance, and also shared with them her lack of faith.

Hydra ascended the Altar of Twilight, keeping to its outer perimeter. Though the rocks were slick, the Ostrega had been born and raised upon mountains and was an expert in maneuvering upon them. The blue-eyed she wolf found her way to a large ledge and noted the great vantage point that was to be had here. She settled on her haunches, and she licked her chops. Her ears pricked forward, though one cupped backward as she heeded her surroundings.

Meandering into another predator's field of view, Churchill prowled lazily about with a drizzle weighing on his shoulders. His natural inclination steered him towards the altar. He had a heart made to be far above sea level, and he knew he could find respite there. His hunger made him beeline; he sniffed here and there, loping back and forth— vacuuming for clues in the damp earth that would hopefully lead him to something edible.

But nothing had come this way in a while. Not even a rabbit. Churchill froze suddenly and picked up his long nose. Leathers twitched, and his spinefur bristled as his head turned slowly into the breeze. He couldn't yet discern that the scent of her came distantly from a ways above him, but he proceeded forward to investigate anyway.

Hydra did not look at all unlike a gargoyle, hunkered down in the permanent watch of its domain. Though this Altar was not hers, there she proudly sat poised and observant. All that was below, from this height, looked minuscule—but there would be benefits to sitting patiently and watching, she knew. And one such benefit came now. Out from the forest came a herd, one at a time, suspicious of the open land they broke into. She shifted her weight, cat-like, as she observed their movement. It looked as though their trajectory would lead them to Moonspear. 

But what she truly sought were things that were out of the ordinary. More wolf than one lurking in the wilderness to stake a claim somewhere, perhaps. The familiar cut of one of her old companions coming to investigate the glen when they believed, on a dreary day like today, no one would be watching. 

She could not think they knew better than that. Not in knowing who was among them, and whose lead they followed. 

The other wolf upon the Altar went undetected, for now, given their distance. Her eyes were for the horizon, but as her ear pivoted forward once more the other side swiveled backward. She was very much so present, and her ears sought the sound of the rain, interrupted. Their blunted claws, when the practice was put into it, could be muted—but none could hide from the rain in the open.

He followed the wolfscent for a while, slowly creasing the mile between them with a dour lope. It was hard to know why he sought the source, when he would likely become disinterested upon finding her company. Wolves were not food, as far as he was concerned, and food was all that mattered to him— as a loner whose only creed now was to survive. He didn't need to think about socializing. Not when food was aplenty.

So then why search? Churchill didn't get to think about this question. The wet wind turned again and he was suddenly caught up in the aroma of a nearby herd. Everything about the wolf changed suddenly, and where before there had been a prancing stag's shadow now crept a lean razor; a low, slinking panther now geared for the hunt.

Though they were far, she felt she, too, could smell them; but then, as scree descended nearby, Hydra recognized the scent for what it was. Her own sharp, predatory gaze found the source of the sound in an injured billy-goat, limping its way upward. Though the creature was as expert as she herself was with the climb, and likely did not even need its eyes, the mountain betrayed it—as its cloven-hoof pressed against the earth, the world beneath it gave. 

The fall was horrific, and the only thing worse than witnessing it might be hearing it—at least, for the faint of heart. But Hydra was already on her feet and had abandoned her task of watching the world dutifully; she could do her due diligence after lunch, she decided. Hydra was neither starved nor hungry, though a hunt was soon to come and she would not refuse a meal that had been all but given to her. 

Its fall was both long and hard, but somehow the critter had survived it. It would not live for much longer, she knew—she drew close, slowly at first, until she saw it had been stunned to stillness... and then Hydra moved in, not waiting for its breathing to cease as her tongue combed the furs from its flesh before her fangs tore into the thing. Both ears cupped backward as she feasted, sure that she might not have been the only thing to have noted the demise of the goat.

Churchill's approach took time. He was careful with each step; calculated in the way he placed his weight on the loamy earth. He had become quite well-versed since dispersing, and he was quite ready to show his worth today— never mind the inclement weather. He descended deeper into his primal instincts, swallowing his thoughts as only one pulse, one chant, began to beat through him.

Hunt. Hunt. Hunt.

He could feel his pulse rising in anticipation, but he thought of it in the way he thought of dismissing a fly from his ear. An annoyance. Something to ignore. The tenseness ebbed and he moved forward again in slow, easy strides. He couldn't hunt with any excess anxiety in him. It would lead to mistakes, and having to do anything over again was a huge pet peeve for the wolf.

When the wind abruptly reverted, he was swept away from his task at hand by the smell of freshly spilled blood. He changed trajectory almost immediately; for what was an easier target than prey already injured? The chant began anew.

Blood! Blood! Blood!

Coming upon the scene, Churchill kept his distance. Luckily for him, the prize was already dead. Unfortunately the carcass was occupied, but he wasn't a rash fiend. The lethal hound loomed on the fringes— visible and inert. He didn't want her to think he'd come to impose. Not before she'd had her own fill anyway.

In time, the creature's idle twitching stopped as it passed from one plane to the next. She fed freely, pleased to have the creature to herself. The sound of another approaching caused Hydra to pause in her feast; she lifted her head and licked her chops as she observed the other who came upon the scene, noting the respect they displayed in hanging back. Licking remnants of the bloodied beast from her chops, Hydra remained watchful until he moved no closer. The Ostrega was no longer in the business of seeking out friends in strangers as she had once when she was younger; only those who proved to her their worth would earn her kinship, now. She resumed eating, though did not take much more prior to withdrawing from nature's kill.

Her eyes found the path she had moved in from and Hydra headed this way once more mutely to resume her watch for a while longer. Reclining some so that her muscles coiled and bunched, she lunged upward and in several bounds she ascended, before returning to the path she had followed to start with which was a great deal easier. She had not fed so much as to feel exhausted, but enough to restore her energy reserves; Hydra felt renewed, and full of vigor, as she made her way to the ledge once more.

please pardon the wait... and my my identity crises xP

Duskhall remained silent in the wings, still and impassive like the black loom of a reaper as he watched the slim creature eat. He blinked every so often, shifting mutely as he caught distant sounds lost to the patter of a hard drizzle, but his eyes never left her— and he could tell that she remained very aware of him despite lording over her claim. She wasn't long at the kill, perhaps just sating her thirst, and she'd hardly turned her heel before the wraith was stealing forward to take her place.

She had opened up the tenderest parts, but had thankfully not demolished them. Duskhall tended quickly to her sloppy seconds. He knew better than to gorge himself, but ate with the ravenous scarfing of someone tardy; posed in a stance that reeked of his anxiety for being caught unaware. Several pounds of flesh later, he licked his chops in satisfaction and retreated from the corpse still warm in places deep.

He turned his long muzzle to and fro, wrinkling his lips and twitching bloodied whiskers as he tried to pick out a trail over the scent of blood. He sniffed at the ground, nosing at a spot where the shadow-creature had been, and then he looked up, meeting the glint of dark eyes as he spotted the wolf in her queenly perch. Feeling full and social, he made his quiet and steady ascent.