Hushed Willows cause he can't compete with a man like me
Loner
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#1
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they do not set camp. they rove.

near two weeks now; sobeille had lost some of her sapphiqian fat. long since had the brine fled from the odor of her pelt, now replaced with spruce and grub and dirt.

they trace old tracks. sobeille sniffed the air heavy with fog, eye upon @Sivaak expectantly.
Loner
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#2
The soft crunch of dirt and frost underfoot was the only sound for miles, broken occasionally by the muted snap of a twig or the rustle of something small and unseen in the brush.

The girl’s scent was different now after two weeks of trekking, stripped of the sea and replaced by the forest, by the wear of days spent following Sivaak’s unrelenting pace.

Sivaak paused, lifting her head to scent the air. Her breath curled into the fog, her sharp nose twitching as she caught faint traces—hoof, musk, the faint tang of sweat. The trail was old, but the quarry was ahead. Her ears flicked toward Sobeille.

“Tracks lead west,” she rumbled out. She turned slightly, crimson eyes gleaming through the mist as they fixed on the smaller wolf. Then, a twisted, knowing smile. "Strange girl take over."
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Loner
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#3
west was further from sapphique. did anyone care she was gone? at first she’d been abuzz with excitement envisioning how the cliffs would be alive with moving bodies like an anthill disturbed; but now, the relentlessness of the road and her company tempered her expectations.

she sniffed a greying patch of grass. the scent here was feeble and barely clung on; one or two molecules unwithered by the cold winds.

she nosed another patch, and another — aware of the burning of sivaak’s knowing gaze.

at last a second clue lingered in a bed of trampled fescue. sobeille raked the earth carefully and found wisps of white hairs; the silhouette of a caribou body framed indistinctly in the grass.

dis way. she decided, bounding after the faint trail with her head held low.
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Sivaak watched Sobeille’s movements, her crimson eyes sharp as the smaller wolf scoured the frosted ground. She didn’t speak, but the faint curl of her lip hinted at her thoughts—judgment, maybe, or the faintest sliver of amusement.

When Sobeille finally spoke and bounded ahead, Sivaak snorted, her breath curling like smoke in the cold air. Her massive frame moved after the girl.

As she followed the faint trail Sobeille had uncovered, her gaze remained wary, sweeping the landscape with the precision of a seasoned hunter. Her nose twitched, catching hints of caribou musk mingling with the bitter bite of winter. She didn’t trust the trail yet—not entirely—but she trusted herself to decide if it was worth pursuing.

“Don’t lose it,” Sivaak barked lowly.
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Loner
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#5
many times sobeille had coursed a lowly scent through the briar; sometimes to fruition, and sometimes to nothing but an empty stomach. large game was different. the path they traveled was more linear; their feet larger and therefore supplanting more scent; their bodies often disturbing leaves, branches, and twigs as they grazed.

the trail went stale near a rough patch of stone. sivaak’s instruction not to lose it thrummed in the girl’s ears.

she doubled back, and on her second pas through found a branch of red berry bent back, a tuft of cream fur held in one curled prong of wintergreen leaf.

sniffing around the base, sobeille found a new set of tracks leading away and sped after it at a careful trot.
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#6
the girl is diligent, though sivaak offers no encouragement, no approval. such things are earned through results, not effort. sivaak listened intently to the the crunch of her heavy pawsteps on the frosted ground. it seems louder than it should be.

when sobeille doubles back, sivaak’s eyes narrow slightly, watching. she doesn’t speak, letting the weight of her earlier instruction settle over the girl like a heavy shadow. find it, the silence demands. and then, near the bent branch of red berry, a flicker of movement—she’s caught something.

good, sivaak rumbles.
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Loner
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#7
one ear turned back to the low growl: good.

the tracks wound uphill.

sobeille coursed them through a dark swale studded with snow. on the rise of the other side, the land turned itself up like a palm receiving alms of sun.

there, milling in the distance between wreaths of fog were the silhouettes of caribou.
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sivaak’s pace slowed as she crested the rise, her crimson eyes narrowing against the faint light that broke through the fog. the silhouettes of the caribou ahead stirred something primal within her—hunger, instinct, the thrill of the hunt. her breath curled in the cold air as she came to a halt beside sobeille, her massive frame lowering slightly as she crouched to observe the herd.

you find them, she growled low, her voice rough but tinged with satisfaction. her gaze didn’t waver from the distant shapes, watching the way they moved, how the fog seemed to cling to them like a shroud. now, you watch. you wait. you choose.

her tail flicked once, slow and deliberate, as she leaned closer to the smaller wolf, her voice dropping into a near whisper. look for weak one. slow one. caribou does not care for its weak. neither should we.
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Loner
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#9
not until sivaak lowered her immense frame to the snow was sobeille reminded of their size disparity. they hunkered down in the bend of a low rise, their hungry eyes peering at the milling bodies in the distance.

sobeille had lost her nerve at the big hunt. seeing ameline there, knowing what athalia had spoken of -- had churned something in the pit of her belly. hunting was too dangerous a sport to half-commit. sobeille recognized this, and when the residual shame of seeing ameline faded, she'd slipped away.

now she faced the caribou again, with a different kind of hunter. this one told her to mind the weak, and it seemed a great shame to sobeille that caribou did not operate as seals or wolves. why did they not band together? they were many times her size -- why would they let one fall prey when their bodies could be walls and their heads held sharp spikes?

she watched, mulling over. she was too green a terrestrial hunter to have a keen eye for lameness yet, but she saw one smaller than the others milling near the fringe.

what about dat one?
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sivaak’s crimson gaze flicks to the smaller caribou that sobeille had pointed out, her scarred muzzle tilting slightly in approval. good, she murmurs. small one is weaker. easier to take. stays on the edge, away from the others. smart choice.

without waiting for further input, sivaak shifts her weight. her eyes narrow as she studies the milling herd, noting the patterns in their movements, the gaps in their formation.

you stay here, she growls softly, glancing at sobeille. watch and wait. sivaak will move first. when herd scatters, you go for the small one. keep low. keep quiet. follow where it runs. do not lose it.

her tail flicks once behind her before she begins to move. she does not spare a glance back at sobeille—her expectations are clear, and she does not coddle. the young wolf would prove herself or fail; sivaak’s role is only to guide, not to handhold.
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Loner
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sobeille sunk to the earth, gaze following the huntress’ shape as she bid the girl remain.

studying the way sivaak moved, sobeille shifted to her belly in silence.

ahead the herd milled; she replayed sivaak’s instructions. stay low. stay quiet. go for the small one.

so much instinct in that simple command.

she tracked sivaak’s slithering approach with hungry yellow eyes, muscles tense and waiting for her moment.
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#12
with the swiftness of an avalanche, sivaak surged forward, her powerful frame a blur of white and scars as she barreled toward the smallest caribou.

her snarls echoed through the trees, scattering the herd as she singled out her target, her jaws snapping at the creature’s haunches to drive it away from the others.

the hunt was on.
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Loner
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#13
for a moment sivaak’s form became eclipsed by mounds of snow. when she emerged it was with the dangerous power of a charging bull, snow flung behind her.

the herd scattered in a chain reaction of clattering hoofbeats against the snowpack. sobeille instinctively flattened her form to the ground, inching forward as a plains creature might towards its prey.

several elk galloped past, eyes rimmed in white as they startled and leapt over her. sobeille’s focus remained on the barreling sivaak, who coursed the smaller caribou from its fellows.

sobeille burst from cover as the caribou veered close; her lips contorted in a concentrated yet silent snarl as teeth clung for the upended arch of its neck.

inexperience in her timing, sobeille’s deathblow fell short. instead of jugular, she managed to seize the skin just behind the caribou’s elbow. clenching her jaws with her might entire sobeille attempted to drag their quarry down, knowing it was now all up to sivaak if they ate a warm meal tonight.
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sivaak sees the caribou lurch, its body straining as sobeille clamps down behind its foreleg. the younger wolf’s inexperience is evident, but the effort is not wasted—it slows the beast, its movements faltering under the weight of desperation and fear.

snow churns violently as sivaak barrels forward, her scarred form a blur of muscle and frost. her crimson eyes lock on the caribou’s throat, a predator’s precision guiding her path. she is upon it in moments, her jaws snapping with the power of a wolf born to the hunt.

teeth find their mark—a sickening crack of cartilage and bone fills the air as she latches onto the neck, wrenching the beast sideways. the caribou stumbles, its legs buckling.

all is said and done now. sivaak turns cold eyes to sobeille. good. she says, lapping blood from teeth and maw. you hold. i kill. next time, you kill.
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Loner
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shame burned scarlet upon her young face as she drove into the fleeing beast, aim made poor by her own miscalculation.

no matter; in violent seconds sivaak had beset the caribou, drawing blood in arcing splatters upon the snow as she ground cervical bone against her full bore of her teeth.

snow flung around them as the caribou kicked and flailed, mimicking a grotesque pattern of galloping footfalls that gradually subdued.

sobeille licked blood from her lips, stepping back for sivaak to eat her fill first. okay. she breathed, adrenaline still coursing in fiery bursts through her veins.
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sivaak grunts, shaking her muzzle free of blood. she nudges the carcass toward sobeille with her paw, crimson gaze narrowing slightly.

eat. you fought. you bled. now you take reward. next time, you will take it all.

she steps back, circling slowly as she watches the younger wolf with a hunter’s scrutiny, testing, waiting.
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Loner
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#17
still the blood pounded in her ears. sobeille's panting drew out in quick breaths, a plume of mist curling around her muzzle.

sivaak's blood-splattered face loomed close, instructing her to eat. having yet to discover a love for terrestrial meat's flavor, sobeille did so gingerly -- pulling strips of skin back and chewing as one does when examining a new taste.

finally, she ate her fill -- but there was still much remaining. flickering her gaze to the seasoned caribou killer, sobeille spoke. what do we do wit' de rest?

in sapphique, such bounty would be quartered and carried to caches all around their packlands. but here, they were itinerants -- and something in sobeille loathed the idea of providing a meal for strangers.
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she circles back to the carcass. take what you can carry. the rest we finish.

she tears a chunk of meat from the doe’s flank and chews slowly, her gaze narrowing as she scans the distant tree line.

we move after. too much blood—brings scavengers.

as she chews, a grin comes. a grin full of bloodied and chipped teeth. sivaak need new hide.
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Loner
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#19
this entire thing was to be finished? sobeille felt around her engorged belly, wondering.

she took strips of back flesh and laid it in a pile. enough for her to carry, but no more. still there was much remaining.

her gaze flicked questioningly to the huntress as she spoke of a hide. de whole t’ing?

setting a paw upon the felled beast’s neck, she waited for sivaak’s confirmation before beginning shearing the flesh near its throat — and though she did not know it then, sobo had done something similar years ago, and it was he she appeared most like in that hour as she bent down to cut flesh from bone.