Honeyed Pasture ³a tenna nárenna

Third founding thread. @Knife-Ear!
( other tags just for reference )

Midmorn was laden, cloaked, and beneath that mantle of harvest mist did the Marked tread;
the chance for a favorable hunt would have seemed more fortuitous, if @Guildenstern were here as her entrusted specter, or the reunited @Agana come to trail her. But the weald needed sentinels, howe’er few — and in setting out on a little excursion, she was in the mind of filling their stomachs far before her own.

And the colossus seems to have taken rest from wherever it most yearned to rent the earth like the fracturing of a pearl. At least, for now: for the smatterings of the last of the blacktail picked their way through the pasture, using the drapery of dawn’s fog to veil beneath just as much as she.

But Andraste’s shorn shoulders scarce cleared the honeyed fronds;
so, with a hushed churr, she let herself wade ever further, further, until she vanished beneath the gilded vaulting almost entirely.

Perhaps, if she could note each cervine closer, she might be able to select a weakened one to down ...

Having split months ago from her travelling companions, Knife-Ear left with only the naming convention she had adopted from them (along with a stolen hunk of meat), parting to venture forth into the great wide yonder in search of nothing in particular. Her whims and wanderings were as unpredictable as the weather...or the tremors that now shook the earth underfoot. Such rumblings were exhilarating and awe-inspiring, but they did strike a certain kind of fear into the coywolf, who stuck to the coast as she travelled believing it to be safer than the rocky, shaky mountains.

It led her through moors and plains and cliffs claimed by flocks of ravens before she finally found herself lost in a sea of golden grasses. Though it was not the swaying blades that caught her attention, but the scent of deer and wolf. A scavenger by nature, Knife-Ear knew if there were wolves near a herd, there was usually a chance at a meal. The scent did not indicate a pack, however, and her hopes were dashed as she spotted a minuscule shock of white in amongst the pasture. She would have thought the other a coy like her were it not for the stark silver of her coat.

As Knife-Ear stalked closer, she took note of the odd scaring upon the stranger's back with a fascinated tilt of her head, before drawing her gaze up and focusing on the small herd that grazed the fields. The only herd. "Slim pickings, innit?" she whispered as she came within earshot of the pallid wolf.

my brain is failing me pls forgive

At moments, the silver could sight the ruminators through the nodding stalks of amber; the greater gatherings would not wait for the weaker, the wizened, or  (she figures)  the heavyset and womb-laden. Solemn gaze considered the yearling, then ... or, perhaps she would shoulder her way to the hind with an awkward step. Which, though, would serve as the most prospective quarry?

But Andraste has become accustomed to the inquisitive press of eyes — and she feels them prod into her red spine as if another has elbowed her in hopeful jest. That’s certainly the tone of voice, she thinks, and so the stricken’s rubied crown cants dovelike at the enquiry this scavenger proposes. The proposition. A long lull of quiet, as her halfsight remains on the paltry herd. Then:

“Yes.”  The tones are low, languid; ponderous.  “I feel it in ze earth. I smell it in ze air. I know it in ze heavens,”  and only a hushed frankness is found therein. Otherwise, she trills a gentled hum of invitation; gestures with a shorn chin to the myriad selection whiles before them.  “This, however, I have yet to decide upon.”

<3

With nary a look behind her, the stranger responds in a hushed voice, lilting and poetic. Knife-Ear listens with a flick of her ear, following the gaze of the woman as she gestures at the herd. A relatively simple creature, the coywolf barely understood what she meant by her words, but the invitation to a hunt was clear enough. Inwardly, Knife-Ear would have preferred to scavenge the remains of a proper pack kill, but tag teaming a weak beast with the stranger was better than nothing.

Although — she steals a glance at the waif's peculiar scar — there is doubt whether they would even be able to take down a hare between them both. Doubt, however, would have to take a backseat for the moment. She was hungry, and she was sure the other woman was hungry too (why else would she be stalking through the plains all sneaky like?).

Shuffling into place beside her, Knife-Ear watches the herd with a sharp gaze, studying each ungulate as they grazed. "Spied any youngin's?" she asks before perking up as she catches sight of the one with a limp.

small post, sry

Invitation, indeed;
accepted with a mututal shift beneath their hides, and yet another glance that might have been meant to be furtive by the coywolf, had they not already lingered so near to another. For seasons she had relearnt what it meant to hold herself up by her own ruff, so to speak; to meet all those who went slack with wonder or apallment or, too, meager and polite curiosity when faced with such a marred guise. And, now, this sunstrike upon her spine for all to see!—

But the silver did not shy away; hunger too gnawed at her innards, and so it was with a low wisp of affirmation that she began to sleuth from scraggly mix at her shoulder. Yes, she had spotted one of the few young, an unassuming whiles from what might be its ailing relative — and so the reforged skulked through all greying frond.

Perhaps, should they crescent towards either flank ... perhaps ... perhaps ...