Blacktail Deer Plateau Why you gotta be so cold --

A hare hung limp from clenched teeth, hooked at the hips so that - were the animal alive - they would be viewing the world spun on its head. The head itself was dislocated and swayed to the beat of her languid steps. On occasion it would connect with her chest, marring the plush fur there with a garish purple-red, at least until the body cooled.

She sought a space for herself to eat in peace, and whether she noticed the marked edge of her current haunt or not, the woman drifted. Her nostrils flared, taking in the scent of the dead thing. Her path led to where a pile of rubble formed an uneven cairn, and towards this she ducked - avoiding some low-hanging branches. There, she dropped the hare's body and fell upon it, lost to hunger and the greedy tugging as she pulled the thing to pieces.

Limbs torn from the body were hastily mauled; the chest cracked like an oyster, the haunch pulverized as she sank to her belly in the snow and worked away at it with her molars. A disgusting display - but the woman was aloof about it all. Why should she care if her chest was bibbed in red? Or should she be so vain as to avoid eating altogether, lest someone catch her and judge her? It was a natural process - albeit, she made it a touch ugly with the way she painted the earth and snow.

it rushed her, overwhelming the woman, standing each hair upon edge; it drove her to wrath, to territoriality, to the edge of her teeth. she set them upon the tang of the air, testing, testing. the season had not truly bloomed in erzulie yet, but it was coming, and swiftly.
her children had been sent away, and she was pleased to see that the first of her careful preparations had been handled.
the new sensations burned away her hunger and left in its place a vague restlessness that drove erzulie to a patrol, where she discovered the distinctly feminine fragrance of a trespasser.
the beta set her jaw, began to hunt alone the trail. cinnamon ears cupped forward with deadly interest at movement near the rocky edge of rusalka, the hint of metal that weighed heavily in the wind. erzulie prowled forward in an open stalk, one she did not bother to veil against the snow, two-toned gaze fixed with an inexorable and horrid intensity.

My bad, sorry!

Slurping up the last of the entrails before they could cool, the wolf begins to lick her muzzle clean. The warm body of the hare has cooled since its evisceration and most of the meat of it sits in her belly, burning as fuel and producing warmth for herself; she is content. A second hare would have been a great blessing but Kintsugi had not been so fortunate.

Neither was she patient. Without anything to tie her to this place once the hare had been dispatched, she began to investigate the soil for a place to bury the bones. Usually they would have made a good snack for her too — she did enjoy the crackling of the tiny bones from time to time — but this particular creature had been quite fat. She nosed through the bits of spinal column left over, thrusting a paw at them to hear the crunch, and watched as they tumbled like dice in to the clean snow nearby.

Her eyes trailed after them. This was when she saw a shifting patch of sunlight, or something very much like one. A gilded shadow slinking towards her, nearly silent, adept upon the terrain. Surprised by this discovery, Kintsugi raises her head and feels the ripple of adrenaline course down her spine while her coat began to spike and fray.

no worries! <3

the woman had been spotted, but it did not spoil her stalk. spice-dusted hackles rose against the milky chai of her topcoat, a low and savage sound vibrating within her throat. the season spurred her, fire-hardened and limned the woman, until she was but a spearpoint ready to bloody itself for rusalka.
a final moment, and erzulie broke into a run, headed directly for the interloper and their stolen meal. the facts of the situation mattered not, save that this was not one of her own, and therefore a threat to everything she held dear.
her stare iced itself, jaws loosening in preparation to strike, and strike hard.