Golden Glade forced into their true shape

This thread takes place on November 11.

Wind snaked through the boughs, bending them to their will. It traveled ever onward, brushing through fern and turf, carrying scents and intrigues. Amidst each breeze, he is led into realms unknown, a trudging beast. Except when he's not.

With all things lupine, it comes with some measure of ease. He clenches the shrew. It vainly fights and just as quickly dies. It is promptly consumed. It is not enough. Time to move on.

A pack. And with it, appeal. He lingers on the outskirts. Not for long, lest he invite attention. Each border he's ever happened upon beckons him to hungrily investigate, but not cross. To trespass means gruesome demise. He bypasses the populous mesa, leaving ample room.

This glade is unclaimed. It touches the plateau, so he is wary. He moves east, the scent of cedar luring him.

But then there is movement, a small creature darting across his field of vision. A hare! The way in which it scurried along at such a blistering pace - feet barely touching the ground - signified fear. Despite what that may entail, Nakjut gives chase, snapping savagely at it's heels. The sound alone must have startled. That single misstep spells its doom. One back leg is broken. The hare flops, emitting a harrowed squeak. Try as it might, but the wolf is upon him, severing life from this mortal plain.

Standing over his kill, he peers over his shoulder, half expecting a wolf behind him. Why else would the hare run except to escape?

The youth again had begun exploring, delving deeper past the clearly marked pack. Their number were huge, she could smell that. She supposed that the presence of her own family congregating in the Shadewood only angered their numbers. Soon, there would be a dispute. But not yet; so she kept her distance and rounded around the territory into a forest.

She spotted a hare and immediately dropped low, but that startled the creature off -- the youth promptly burst and gave chase to it; only to soon fall flat as she stumbled on a tangle of roots. She stood, muzzle muddied and chest caked with leaves and mud. Fruitlessly, she trotted after her quarry; wondering if it was hiding in the undergrowth.
She happened across a wolf, with her hare.

Her ears flattened sideways, her efforts undone by the opening. He was looking right at her so she stared back, sea-green eyes dragging up dismay to expose her disappointment. She'd failed herself this time. The skewbald girl dropped her gaze and looked to her paws; white socks immersed with the mud she'd fallen into. 

'Lo and behold, there is the hare's original hunter sharing his gaze. Scraps over food are common. As common as breathing. This one does not seem intent on quarreling, dejection within all over her petite frame. Were he of a generous heart, or not so hungry, he would have offered the kill.

With no pack to rely on and winter closing in, he cannot allow kindness.

Facing her, he tears into the rabbit with practiced ease. The skin is done away with, exposing the delicacy below. His awareness flickers back and forth between the wolf and his food, never eyeing either for a prolonged amount of time.

He knows the drill. If this muddied canine will not fight for her claim to feed, she may very well try to seize it. Natjuk is outfitted for whatever schemes she might conjure up.

She launched at him after a minute with a wild screech when he turned his head away, but her energy  deluded her actions; for she kept her soft anger quiet and the air between them slack. 

Only when she were upon his rump, from one giant leap, did her actions reveal themselves and she harmlessly bit into his fur, not even scathing his skin. 
She had not he ability to truly harm another. 

It was clear she wouldn’t expect the other to retaliate with hightened aggression, for she never harmed him. Only a knowledgeable mercenary would recognise the fruitlessness of her attack, fueled purely by her short bount of puppish rage.

There is a subdued electricity in the air, even as her caterwaul echoes through the trees. Natjuk acts accordingly, centering himself with a warning rumble, face twisting ferociously. He imagines meeting her halfway - stop her from getting close to his meal - but the way she throws herself, haphazard and untrained, roots him in place.

Natjuk kindly allows her teeth to comb the fur of his hip, her grasp nonexistent.

Perhaps the knowledge of keeping your distance around strangers did not stick as a child. Perhaps, then, it would be best to teach her now.

He moves, freeing himself of her teeth. He positions himself so that if she were to retaliate, she could only snap at his face or legs. But Natjuk does not offer leeway, seeking to take her muzzle between his jaws as quickly as possible. He has no intention of harming her beyond a guided but stern grip. This was, after all, a lesson.

As quickly as it came, her anger dissipated upon contact; realising her mistake. His movement dislodged her easily — for she nay had a true hold — and stood looking up to the male with large puppish eyes. 

The male had turned to face her, and upon seeing another opportunity to pester him, she made an undignified snap towards his face; her aim was to probably grab his muzzle but, of 
course, to not avail. Before she could rethink her actions, his jaws held her muzzle, earning a sharp yelp of surprise. 

The girl thrashed backwards, trying to dislodge him. If she succeeded she would try and launch another assult on her hare theif. If not, she’d have to be submissive to him; her tail would lower to tuck tightly between her legs and she’d whimper apologetically, dropping her gaze. 

If there's anything in this post you're not okay with, feel free to PM me.

The she-wolf's attempt to reconcile failed; it was too late in his book. She then had the nerve to turn on him - likely to sink her teeth in this time. What a mercurial creature. One second she is repentant and the next, cross. He feels the fury welling inside of her is not downright murderous, but he could be mistaken.

Now with a grip on her snout, she tries to wretch free of him. The motion jostles him, but he meets her step for step, his mandibles winding tighter. No doubt now there are gouges on her snout as he's certain he tastes blood. Nothing life threatening, just painful.

Natjuk sees no fault in his actions. She should have stayed still and endured the admonishment. Now there are teeth marks across the width of her snout, jagged and searing. Despite the superficial wounds, Natjuk does not release until she is still. Even then, he will growl, the sound vibrating deep within his chest. A verbal warning: no tricks, or I'll bloody you worse.

The girl lowered herself down, a small whimper emitting from her. Her muzzle stung worse than any other pain; worse than the beach-crabs. Her eyes trailed to her ground by her feet, apologetic and wielding. She slowly moved to roll onto her back; she'd never been in a fight before but she knew that this move meant sorry, I give up and that was usually the end of the conflict.

Her eyes lifted to his for a moment, wide and puppyish for he'd taken all the rage build within her. Her white-tipped banner waved behind her slowly, testing the status of their relationship now, before asking a question, "What is your name?" To the girl, it was simple and innocent enough.

Resign she does, lowering her body and plopping onto the ground. Good. Natjuk lets her muzzle slide free. He wills the residual aggression away, tempered by the girl's prostration. Hopefully, she will not do that again. To him or to anybody else, lest she incurs the wrath of someone nastier than himself.

Natjuk.

He has never been one for conversation and he's not about to start now. He retreats from her prone form, never letting her slip from view. He returns to his rabbit and tears into it with renewed fervor. Piece by delicate piece slides down his throat. Hawkishly, he watches his company. No sudden movement and she'll be free to go...or stay and try to engage him. So long as there are no obtuse inquiries, he will respond.

The youth pawed at her muzzle, trying to remove the stinging-burn; of course to no avail. Of course, it made the pain worse. So much so she whimpered again, a silvery slick lined her eyes and she tried a different approach. This time she attempted to lick the bite marks puncturing her muzzle. 

“That was mean of you,” but she’d deserved it. She knew that much, but still complained, “I was never gonna hurt you.” The youth pouted then, her white chin jutted out from the deep hue of her maw. Despite her apparent disdain to the treatment, the girl was registering the lesson and took note from it.
Not to attack strangers, no matter what. Stolen prey or not. 

Phex sat up, blinking away her tears; no point crying over nothing. She gave Natjuk a pointed glare, wondering to herself if she should act vengeance upon his form. To maul an ear perhaps, if she even got that far. But the girl didn't move from her position, just glared like a hellion at the thief.

In place of discussion, she complains. Natjuk takes the final sliver of flesh and swallows it with a lick of his lips. It had not been his intention to hurt her, either. Alas, here they are.

Grim thoughts brew in his mind. She speaks of "being mean," so he has to wonder what goes on in that head of her's. Last he checked, this was the wild, neutral ground. And she, a rogue. There is nothing "nice" about being a loner. It's a hard, hard life and not everyone makes it out alive. What is to become of her spouting nonsense at the mouth?

Nothing. She will be food if she comes for him again, though.

Disinterested, he makes to leave, rivaling her glower. His teeth glint perilously. Keep your distance. If she did, he would retreat into the brush, never to be seen by the likes of her again.

She watched him turn to leave, not missing the glint of teeth. She wouldn’t follow, but half expected to happen across the coal-tinted man again. Neutral or bad terms. 

Nether less her tail waved softly, offering him a goodbye and just grinned. She wasn’t one to hold grudges, no matter the pain he’d inflicted of her poor muzzle. As he moved off into the brush, the sat in the same spot. Looking about her form for anything else to interest her, and to make a game from it.

Thank you so much! Great thread