Sawtooth Spire illumination

the stallion was far now from the hollow. his bleeding continued as his wounds were not given time to stitch together, and he did not have a mare's touch to help.
the ground became more rocky and more uneven, and he knew at some points where he climbed, and sometimes as he tumbled in to low patches the gash to his chest would leak and stain a trail.
it would not be long.

blood heavy on the air.

she followed an intermittent trail of pooling blood, noting the progenitor of such a grisly sight chose to move uphill.

curiosity piqued, she followed over increasingly rocky ground.

honor among thieves.
it did not hide from the ear of wolfshelm; that his brother had sent away a wounded stallion. it was not surprising, colosseum fiercely protective of his mares, of what he called his.
but his brother was not bound by the same nature's code. the life of a bachelor stallion was a hard road, and he could not in good conscience know that a man towed the line of death somewhere in the immediate area.
he would help—if he could. if the man would allow it, and if wolf could remember any sort of healing knowledge. it was little.
following after the bloody hoof steps of the man, but feeling that something was off. he snorts nervously, eyes scanning wildly now.

if he was lucky maplesmoke would find a place to hide and to rest, but it seemed as if his luck had run out.

he was ambling among the stones. sometimes the shadows hit the rubble of the mountainside in a way that confused him, and sometimes there was too much moss for the sake of stability, and sometimes the roots of trees choked the path and he had to stop; but to stop mean to die, and so he would go to wedge himself along the trail even if it meant making something new.

on more than one occasion he felt the terror of the lonely herbivore: that he was being watched, and that he was being followed, which forced him to be quicker on his feet than what was possible—or to take a turn when he should have taken another.

he did not yet know that he was trailed by more than one; let alone that one might be a friend, one a foe.

feel free to PP hitting her, just no major injury please <3

the harsh clop of hoof against stone announced more than one followed the wounded stallion.

moro kept close to the ground, ears flat and profile low. at one point she stopped at a moss-hewn stone where the scar of a slipped hoof tore across it. pooling at its very center was a rich mat of fresh blood.

she lapped at its surface hungrily, then pressed on.

the stench of blood masked her scent as she crept close. he chose to pause as he navigated a tangle of raised roots, and this was his mistake.



bursting from cover at prolific speed, moro sprung for exposed backside. both paws outstretched as she sought purchase along his wither, teeth aiming to crush windpipe and subdue him before company arrived.

he was afraid that realization came too late.
but he would try.
wolfshelm lifts his head quick, nostrils flaring wide. a furious snort, ears twisting as he crests tall ridge and begins sight-seeing. seeing below the crouching form of a mountain lion reaping.
thundering hooves take him flying forward, hooves slamming into rock as he barrels uphill, weaving through low growth and slick moss.
a red, lean body flying for the bachelor’s wither. teeth seeking throat. he throws his shoulder forward, aiming to clip her mid-lunge.

it was not until the cat was leaping that maplesmoke took notice, so great was the hunter's prowess, its silence, its dedication—perhaps only beaten back by the hunger in its belly.
the cat is leaping, and the stallion barely has time to brace for impact let alone to think of fighting, of kicking or throwing his weight in any regard; but he is fortunate enough to be shadowed by a thundering presence of equal power.
another stallion!
this stranger—who was perhaps a better man than he, as maplesmoke would have never fought with such a demon thing on behalf of a possible rival—throwing themselves up the hill and after the cat.
maplesmoke scrambled. even though the stranger moved in a way that would crush the cat between two broad bodies, those reaching arms and their claws sank in to his haunch, and the cat climbed practically atop him.
he turned his head at just the right moment to avoid a fatal crush to his throat, but not to avoid a bite entire. maplesmoke gave a shriek of pain which became a frothing, furious cough while blood filled his mouth, and he wheeled.

here she was thinking this an easy kill!

to great satisfaction, she landed upon broad and vulnerable spine. too late did he know of her presence, and now he was surely to fall beneath teeth scything to unwind the torrent of blood pulsing through his neck.

until another came. a red-clay bullet, far more powerful than she.

as the wounded stallion threw his head, moro held -- but she was quick to lose confidence. at her very best, she was only a match for one; two was a game moro could not win.

she was thrown bodily from that of her would-be meal with a curdling hiss, ears pinned and coach-whip tail arcing as she reached through the air for the ground coming at her fast.

in a noiseless thud she landed, whipping around in a crouch with all teeth bared.

come, she goaded of the healthier of the two. come, baited the gentle flick of her bent tail.

he stops, hooves wide and breath heavy, ears pinned flat to his skull. eyes catching the sight of blood, crimson, red. he sees it on the other stallion, upon his flank that trembles with pain.
wolf shifts forward, looming; planting himself as a wall now between the cat and the wounded one.
he lowers his head. tail lashing, swatting furiously at his hindquarter. body rocking once with tension, a hoof raising to strike the ground once in warning.
backing himself up instinctively against the other stallion in defensive measure, and broadens himself in display. snorting, blowing aggressive breath and pinning crazed eyes onto the predator.
ye alright? he calls back, all while keeping watchful eyes on the hissing cat.

whether it was the pivot or the collision, the cat released its hold and fell.

maplesmoke stomped and kicked and spun off-kilter, almost tripping himself in the frenzy, and scrambled against the many stones beneath him. he did not fall, fortunately; but the cat remained and the stallion was seeping blood.

the other—this man who had come from nowhere to assist him—backed himself against maplesmoke as if he were a colt in need of a mare's circle.

spitting blood and heaving breath through flaring nostrils, he is white-eyed, unable to speak—and he instead bellows a cry towards the hissing cat.

she did not live this long by chance. tensing at the clatter of hooves and the sharp report of hind limb sailing past, moro grunted as hoof met her haunch and forced her to recalibrate landing among the mossy stones.

by the time the red stallion's hard-flung hoof thudded over broken rock, moro alighted the fallen bough of a nearby beech.

she scented the air; blood, iron, rich sweat and the sour tinge of adrenaline.

stretching in the insouciant manner only a cat was capable of, moro's long claws sunk into the corroded bark, lifting the tree's skin and letting it clatter noisily to the stones.

they flanked one another, their bodies powerful and too prohibitive for her to come within range.

smart.

but moro was infinitely patient, and her quarry wounded besides.

she sunk to her stomach, conserving energy. moro intended for a full belly tonight.

wolf grits his teeth. the wind whistles thin between the rocks. the path behind them is nothing but shattered stone and steep drops—no herd. no safety.
yer not gonna hold up out here, he mutters, voice flat, eyes still locked on the cat. she knows it too. look at her. waitin’. wolf shifts, shoving his shoulder hard into maplesmoke’s side, bracing him. tail swatting. down the slope—there’s green past the rock line. fernbeds, moss, a stream. cool and hidden. you make it there, you’ll last.
the climb will be hell. blood on stone, cat on their heels. but it’s the only shot. he digs his hoof into the ground again, cracking gravel. another strike upon stone, threatening. go now, boy. i'll hold 'er off.
his muscles ripple as he steps forward, sending pebbles skittering away from four thick hooves. his head lowers, ears pinned flat to his skull, nostrils flaring. breath hisses out through clenched teeth. he rears.
his forelegs lift high, dark against the gray sky, mane whipping wild as he towers. hooves slash down hard—once, twice—into the rock, the sound cracking like thunder across the slope. dust kicks up in a cloud beneath him.