Hoshor Plains and no one's going to save you from the beast about to strike

@Tomahawk

His eyes narrowed on a coyote as it harried a fox, whom was guarding the carcass of a rabbit. Time and time again the larger canine would dart in, nipping at the fox, drawing blood and draining its energy, until the fox decided the rabbit was no longer worth the effort. It fled, and to his surprise the coyote pursued it. It overcame the smaller, red-furred creature easily and killed it. He watched then, as the coyote towed the fox across the plain, leaving the rabbit behind.

The shadow gathered the rabbit in his mouth, and stole after the coyote. He kept himself low, slipping among the tallest of the grasses. To his advantage, the sun was just about set and the plain was almost entirely wreathed in darkness. One tail-length at a time he gained on the purebred. He was drawing close, besting the 'master' at his own game of stealth and cunning, when the coyote started to slow. He dropped the rabbit and struck. The old coyote was too late in realizing it was being hunted, and within moments the coywolf's long fangs had pierced its throat.

Its cries were garbled by blood as it kicked and writhed in his jaws. The fox lay off to the side, dropped when the coyote first saw his death lunging from the brush. Its limp, red-furred form partially concealed the den the coyote had been taking it to.

Tomahawk trusted no-one with the gifts—not even Rakharo. For this reason, she spent much of her time at the den, only stealing away for the minimum amount of time required to grab a drink from the nearby stream. She only did this when the children were safely tucked away and their father had retreated for one of his hunting expeditions. Something stirred her from sleep. A scuffle outside, ending with a red fox at the mouth of the den. Tomahawk assumed that the coyote had left it there, and she approached, pulling it back into the den.

But there was something else that stopped her.

The mother froze, standing over the fox and facing the void creature who had slain the father. Layaffi did not care for him, but she would not be able to feed the children without him. Rakharo's scent had faded over time, along with the rest of his wolves. She did not know what had happened to him. She remained still, the children safely behind her... for now.

It was not personal. In his breast he harbored no hatred for the species, nor did he for the other half of his blood. The coyote's fate was the same he had delivered to the fox, which was the same the fox had delivered to the rabbit: to be hunted, to be killed for the food its body provided. It was nature's grim chain, and the black coywolf was the one to profit the most. Laid at his feet now was enough to feed him for days.

He released the coyote and lifted his head to sniff for the rabbit. It was then that from the corner of his eye he saw the fox's body move, and in an instant he was upon it, slamming a foot down on its face as his lips lifted to expose the entirety of his deadly fangs, ready to sink into its spine. But the fox had not come alive, no. He found himself staring into the face of another coyote, who had dragged the red predator into the den he had not known was there.

The creases in his muzzle disappeared as his lips slid back down over his teeth, save for the lower portion of his long canines. His dark eyes stared into hers.