Noctisardor Bypass Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
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Wylla shivered in the cold wind that swept through Rivenwood. She'd give anything to get up and go for a jog around the perimeter to warm her bones, but then the rabbit would know she was there. She needed every advantage she could get when it came to land hunting. Hunting was one aspect she hadn't adapted well to after the loss of her eye, so she often fished instead, but the ice in the lagoon was too thick now. She was more hungry than cold. That was what she told herself.

In the snow several feet away, the little rabbit — white as its surroundings — snuffled around for food of its own. Its ears were drooped, relaxed. It hadn't noticed the predator lying in wait. Wylla rocked her hindquarters gently and tried to ignore another blast of wind that cut through her thin coat. If she could only get a step or two closer before losing her nerve to the cold...
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#2
As much as she enjoyed her foray with @Heda and Mireille, Druid couldn’t bear to stay away from home for too long. She journeyed back to reunite with @Sequoia and @Witch, regaling them with everything she had seen and done on the taiga. It was good to be home. Much as she loved traveling and seeing all the wonders of the world, she was truly Druid of Rivenwood.

This morning was particularly frigid and frosty, though the youth didn’t mind it. Perhaps it was only a self-fulfilling prophecy, yet Druid loved the winter as much as she had always thought she would. She still missed Bracelet every day, but she knew she would see her friend again. In the meantime, she reveled in the season’s cool hush.

She wended through the trees, pondering visiting Dawnleaf and then, perhaps later, The Giant. Her paws crunched in the snow as she pivoted and began to lope toward her destination, though she abruptly froze when she caught Wylla’s scent mixing with a rabbit’s on the Siberian wind sweeping past.
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One step, and then both predator and prey piqued their ears at the crunch of snow underfoot. Panic swelled up in Wylla. She sprang from cover, hoping to recover a bungled effort by launching a little too early, and yet somehow she was still too late. Her reaching paws slammed down where the rabbit's spine had been, but it was already up and bolting through the snow.

Wylla streaked after it for only a few wolf-lengths before giving up the chase. There was no way she would catch it now. They were nimble and fast little buggers that could easily outmaneuver her in the trees. No matter how well adjusted she was to her eye, she still second guessed her altered depth perception when it came to tight quarters. Fuck! she shouted after it.

Snapping her tail side-to-side in agitation, Wylla turned and prepared to loudly admonish whoever was lurking around, only to see Druid in the near distance. Shit, she couldn't just go screaming at a kid. Especially not when the kid's mom was Karen How-Dare-You-Swear-In-Front-Of-My-Precious-Little-Angels McKarenface. She forced two breaths through her nose. It was Druid's fault, but Druid couldn't have known.

Eeeeey, she said in a strained voice. She liked Druid, but didn't really know her well at all. She did remember the night with the northern lights though. So, uhhh, how's winter now that you've seen it?
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#4
She began to follow the scents, only to halt again when a rabbit darted past, Wylla thundering after it for a few furlongs before skidding to a stop. “Fuck!” The outburst startled Druid and she tensed, though she knew the epithet wasn’t meant for her, right?

Wylla looked strained when she turned to face Druid. If she was irritated with the youth, it didn’t show in her greeting. The young Mäher tentatively waved her tail, taking a few steps closer so the two of them could converse properly face-to-face.

It’s pretty cool, Druid quipped, two-toned eyes sparkling a little before she glanced after the long-gone rabbit. Sorry about your lunch. Maybe we can try to find something else? I’m not very good, she was forced to admit, so I could use the practice. And maybe they would get lucky.
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Eh. Don't worry 'bout it. It wasn't easy for Wylla to lose her prey and be chill about it, but for Druid, she tried to keep the frustration out of her voice. She took another slow, steadying breath, then admitted, I'm not that good either. Something about having one shitty eyeball.

Part of her thought there was no point to trying again. If she and Druid were both poor hunters, then she felt it was just a waste of time. They could get something from the caches and walk away with their dignity intact. That was not what Mahler would want her to do, though. He was so invested in the youth of Rivenwood, their futures and successes. Maybe her life would be better if she followed his example.

She was no great teacher. Her only strength in hunting was fishing. Resigned to what would likely be a lackluster lesson for Druid, Wylla scented the air and asked, you ever try to kill a deer?
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Wylla declined and Druid felt a sense of relief she could not explain. She wasn’t worried about looking foolish in front of her more experienced pack mate—who could probably best her, even down an eye—so she couldn’t place the feeling. She rarely hunted small game, she should’ve pushed for the opportunity for some practice. Yet she didn’t and in the instant before Wylla asked her about deer, Druid found herself thinking of a certain stick from her earliest childhood days.

The question pushed that thought back into the murk of her memories. She thought about the caribou hunt on the taiga and shook her head, saying, No. Heda took me to the hunting grounds with our allies but I didn’t do anything but observe. I didn’t feel ready, she admitted, thinking of the man who’d concurred with that assessment.

She wondered if the Zweite was beginning to think she was hapless despite her hunter title. Druid could’ve mentioned her fishing skills, though instead she said, I’d love to learn, though, especially about bigger game. Are there any deer close by that we could…? Track, observe, hunt: she would leave it up Wylla.
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The what now? By now, even the juveniles were sure to have picked up on Wylla's nature as a recluse in Rivenwood. It was a stark contrast to her effort to be involved in Sagtannet. If anything, her time leading that pack showed that no one’s regard was worth breaking your back over. It was unfortunate that it, along with Sequoia’s drama, had caused her to swing so far the other way, and that included being out of the loop on current events outside Rivenwood, such as the caribou hunt.

That’s alright. Caribou are bigger and more dangerous. Bigger herds means more potential for some feisty jackass to bowl you over. Not to mention the antlers. Deer antlers were formidable enough, but caribou had some absolutely crazy racks. They could gut you and poke your eye out all at the same time. No thank you to any of that shit.

C’mon, she said, leading Druid at a casual lope. Let’s see if we can find some hanging around the lagoon in the trees. Pretty sure Mahler said there’s a bunch living here somewhere. Wylla felt it right in her ego, admitting that she didn’t know where they were, but she was no hunter and wouldn’t pretend to be one, either.
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#8
The question hit as rhetorical, though Druid sensed that Wylla really didn’t know, so she explained, A couple of packs have gathered further north to hunt caribou together. I guess some of the caribou are sick, so they’re… Oh, someone had used a fancy word to describe their efforts. It had sounded like “killing,” which was also true, but it was a slightly different word…

It didn’t come to her, so she shook her head. It didn’t matter and, anyway, Wylla was motioning for her to follow along. Druid fell into step with the Zweite, the pair of them headed toward the lagoon. It made sense that prey might congregate around a watering hole of a kind, though why would a herd risk sharing territory with a pack of wolves?

Druid reserved any questions for later, maintaining silence as she occasionally glanced at Wylla’s face for any cues.
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I see, said Wylla with a perfunctory glance toward the north. I didn’t hear about that. It likely had a lot to do with sequestering herself away from the greater part of Rivenwood in most of her waking hours. No matter. She wasn’t suited to hunting the great beasts of the cold plains. It sounded like these packs were taking advantage of weakness in the caribou. A shame Rivenwood had not benefited, aside from the youths learning a good deal.

The forest was silent but for the sound of snow dropping from branches. Wylla caught herself slipping into her mind and forced herself back to the present. Druid surely expected to learn something today. All wolves had basic knowledge of hunting. She could pass on a little.

Do you know why we hunt the weak and sick? she asked, leading Druid around a steep drop carved in the hillside. The land sloped down toward the lagoon from here. It was visible through the trees, or would be if it wasn’t just as snowy as the rest of their surroundings.
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For the most part, Wylla didn’t speak, nor did Druid. She cast her mismatched eyes around the wood as they traveled in silence, then suddenly wondered if she should call for Witch. Her sister had missed out on the hunting grounds, perhaps she would enjoy this opportunity.

The Zweite’s question distracted her. She thought on it a moment, came up with a response and was about to voice it when she second-guessed herself. Was that answer too obvious? Surely Wylla didn’t intend for it to be a trick question.

In the end, Druid decided to go with her gut, though it did come out as more of a question than an answer. They make easier prey?
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Well, yeah, Wylla agreed, leaving off the unspoken obviously. It wasn't her intent to make Druid feel stupid or anything like that, and in the girl's shoes, she would feel pretty stupid if someone used that word with her. That was one reason, maybe the more important reason.

But there's more to it, she said. See, you would think deer would stay as far away from wolves as possible. God knows why they haven't sprouted wings and taken to the skies yet. Seems pretty stupid, right? But I think they know we make them better. When we kill the sick and injured ones, the herd benefits, too. They're stronger for it. They didn't live like wolves did. Wolves took care of their sick and injured, or at least most of them did. Wylla thought it would be a whole lot easier to leave them to die, but that callous thinking was part of what made Wylla a trash tier pack wolf.

If we just killed the strong ones, the herd would be weak as shit and probably die off every time the wind blows, and then we wouldn't have any food, she concluded, and just in time, too. Look, she said, pointing out a bright yellow patch of stag urine in the snow right beneath a scraped tree trunk.
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She was correct, in part. Wylla explained the merits of taking down—culling, Druid remembered abruptly—the weakest members of the herd. She nodded her understanding, her mind wandering back to the diseased caribou. By weeding out the ill, the wolves had also stopped or at least slowed the spread, or so the youth assumed.

Her mismatched eyes followed where the Zweite pointed. Druid’s nose wrinkled at the sight of the discolored snow, though she stepped toward it and dropped her head to sniff. It was certainly a pungent odor. It stung her nose, although maybe that was just the cold.

Even if we target the most vulnerable one of the herd, they’re so much bigger than us. How many wolves does it usually take to safely hunt a deer? Druid wanted to know.
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Mind if we wrap this one up soon since so much has changed since this?

Wylla skirted around the urine, wrinkling her own nose in disgust. That musk could clear a room. It seemed relatively fresh but if it was a lone stag wandering during the rut, there was no way she would risk either of their safety trying to take it down. By following its path, maybe they could find the herd proper and try their luck. Druid asked the very question that was on her mind, but Wylla did not know the real answer to that.

I wouldn't say it's ever safe even if you had a whole pack, said Wylla, picking up an easy trot along the stag's trail. Their hooves can fuck you up pretty good and even cut you and you really gotta watch out for the antlers if you ever go after a male one. Wolves have been disemboweled before. Not that Wylla had any firsthand experience with that, thank god. It was part of the reason hunting had never been her calling.

More is better, but you could take one down alone in theory. You just have to keep at it and poke holes in it wherever you can. Eventually they lose too much blood and fall. I wouldn't even try it without at least two of us, though, it's too dangerous. For Wylla, the risk was never worth the reward, but a larger and stronger wolf might find value in a solo kill. The carcass could probably feed a solo wolf for a week.
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Sure thing, I’ll fade it for us! :)

Druid pondered Wylla’s astute correction: when it came to big game, there was no such thing as a safe hunt. These were wise words she would not soon forget, especially when Wylla made a point to embellish on the kind of damage ungulates could do to a wolf. She swallowed thickly even as she fell into step with her superior.

She nodded quickly when Wylla mentioned she wouldn’t dare try anything with just the two of them. Druid was not at all prepared to go anywhere near large prey at this point. Tracking them was a great way to get her toes wet, as was this conversation. Druid would take whatever lessons Wylla was willing to teach her and, by Arctic day’s end, she would learn quite a lot.