Winter takes the Ill

[Damien]

Clouded steam rose from a bellowing moos as it strutted through a spacious meadow, calling to its child. Snipits of grass, froozen it was but at least eatible sprung through the snow every here and there. The mother's hooves crunching along the packed ice as it worriedly searched for the lost young. Stiff ears pirched forward attempting to hear the rapid foot falls that would normally be racing toward her with the accompaniment of a call.

Alone in the woods did the quiet patter of a foal's walk resound. His nares pulsating with a paniced excitement weary as to what dangers might lie before him in this never ending woods. Course and matted was his fur and eyes as red as blood, indicated his sikly state. The cold had played its part on this one and now nature will continue the cycle as a young adult sikla caught the illness on the wind. Immidiately her senses went to work calculating distances, size, and gender of the potential food source ahead.

Instinct over came all sense of reason and she sunk into stalking position, her chest brushing along the snow as she slowly crept forward, her ever nearing presence mute to the young stag. Auditories methodically forward on the task at hand and emerald eyes fixed upon the frantic movements caused by the foal. Her mane pricked in excitement as her mouth watered with the sweet imaginings of food.

Upwind, she followed the young one carefully watching for its forebearers, curiously wondering if there was anyone to aid her in her attack.

[Liberté]

The calf grunted, mouthing down the last of his icy fodder as he exhaled billowing white into the atmosphere. It was almost a game for him, attempting to divert his attention from paranoia to the shapes his breath made. Across a frozen pasture, through the tangles of the woods the calf was engaged in, his mother raised an irritated head of antlers against the sky. A vexed expression fettered her façade, each tread trimmed in maternal instinct, fearing that tonight would be the night. Her child was ailing, and she understood that he would not endure the winter at the inauguration of the fall season, yet he had made it so far, and she couldn’t bare to part.

The coiling breeze shifted its route and released the scents that it carried onto Tocho’s face. Cocking his temple suddenly, he felt the lust to feast in his jowls as saliva began to dribble from the corners of his mouth. Food - it meant life, breath, and the verve to accomplish the long trek to the List pack lands that was called to drag himself through. He was not a member of their family, per say, but he was anticipating their exception to him with is delayed arrival. With a stifled wag of his furred tassel he forced a smile, picking up his weary pads and slinking off towards the prey as he evaluated its very personality.

As he drew hither towards the quarry he isolated it to the species of moose, and a young one at that but still troublesome for any wolf to bring down. Let alone a cowardice puppy such as himself. Inching forward on his belly, he rammed his velvet ears towards the snorts that fractured the stillness of the vale. He prayed that there would be another desperate soul somewhere, perhaps the onyx she-wolf he had repetitively collided with, to aid him in butchering the moose calf. The scent of her hung around him like a bad omen, and thinking he was just hallucinating, he shrugged it off and continued to steal his way through the large woods.

[Damien]

Gleaming jades concentrated on the calf, her tongue quietly lapping back the drivel that formed from the mere scent of fresh food. Something however, retracted her gaze from the game, a shadow it was, sleek and swift in movement. It faded in and out of the moonlight its presence never really shown and its gate smooth and inaudible. A smirk wired across the blacken muzzle, a fello’ putnar had been attracted to the calf as well; she closed her eyes and deeply inhaled for the trace of this phantasm. Re-opening the glimmering greens once her mind had been made up, Aspen slowly begun her hunt, the wraith that had evaded her keen oculars was the faltering Canary. His vocals leading her to sanctum once the notes left his maw.

Doing her best to mimic what sound he had so beautifully created Aspen pursed her lips and called out to him. The summoning was not that of a normal howl, it was different, however, Aspen did not have the technique perfected as Tocho did. It was rasping and gruff compared to his, but none the less, the calf did not single it out as a wolf. Instead the moose grew even more frightened and it’s head reared back, alert and ready to run. She did not mean to startle the prey but somehow, where upon Tocho sang he entranced all.

Silence fell as she withdrew her note, crouching low hiding her dark image from the calf’s untrained eyes. She awaited Tocho’s reply as she crawled closer to the prey, ready to spring at any given moment.

[Liberté]

A downy broom, dipped in onyx, swished soundlessly to a rigid state as the wolf’s pearl daggers gleamed under the stars that they mirrored. His mouth was taut and twitching in a lip-sync promenade of predatory instinct. Chocolate quills bristled in a saddle along his vertebrae and he continued to shuffle his way through the ferns. All was hushed and still aside from the rustling of the leaves against his coat and the trampling of young cloven hooves, until suddenly Tocho’s ears pivoted toward the throaty rasp two thickets aside from his own cover. It was not a true howl in tenor nor volume, but Tocho was beguiled by its unique and familiar echo. It must be wolven, he rumbled silently as he paused and restrained his voice box for a sort of reply.

The calf was restless, reversing into a briar patch and braying his tensed frustration to the air. Tocho pressed away the startling cry from the moose, allowing his own soothing call to snake across the midnight zephyrs. Uncertain of what to do whilst he awaited a gesture from the she-whelp, the toffee cub stiffened his haunches like a coiled spring ready to release. Above the moonlight etched threads of silver around the gnarled branches, embossing them and making the young pup feel watched and solitary once again. It could only hold him for so long though, for his jaws began to snap as the salvia trickled down his cheek, gut writhing and crying to be filled.

“Pshht,” he murmured quietly to the ebon fae. His eyes spangled in the darkness like moonstones, hardly opaque with speckles of teal and mauve washing into its overall porcelain blue as he pitched a glance to the femme with hope. He could feel a bond budding between them, how ever he didn’t want to admit to it, and he chanced the hope that it would be something more than a pact between the putnar.

[Damien]

((Is going to post here i just need to remember it ><))

[Mayan]

((Hope y'all don't mind me pokin' my nose in!))
Mayan padded through the undergrowth, hoping to find food. Mice were all right for a while, but she couldn't subsist on the rodents alone. Her ribs were already showing faintly through her fur. In her absence, the smaller animals had moved their burrows, and Mayan was starving for it. Her strained breath puffed out in crystal-white clouds before her until it was carried away in the cool breeze. Scarlet eyes glowed slightly as they scanned the brush for any sort of food. Suddenly, her head rose. A scent entered her nostrils and saliva trickled from her lips. Meat. Mayan began to run, risking her energy for the promise of a meal.

She came to a wood. The meat was within, and it was young, soft, sweet. Her toungue carressed her scarred muzzle in anticipation of blood. Mayan sniffed deeply and was finally able to place the scent. It was moose. Suddenly afraid, she lifted one paw in trepidation. She had never been able to tackle such large prey. There had been disasters... She recalled the feeling of hooves cracking ribs, of swinging antlers seen through bloodied vision, of pain shooting through every joint, accented by Sharhan's fire.

Mayan hung her head. Coward. Looking up, she saw the mother moose approaching in the meadow, calling for her son. Like a frightened rabbit, Mayan made for the deep part of the forest. In her fear, however, she became turned around, and ended up in the path of the lumbering moose calf. She could see it, but it paid no heed to her. It was clearly sick, and she was downwind. That was just as well, for Mayan could not move. Her senses were flooded with fear and pain and all she could see was the great shaggy animal slowly approaching. Finally something galvanized her to move. She darted almost unconciously in the direction of a varg scent she had caught, not even recognizing it as familiar.

Keeping low, she crawled closer to the varg she now recognized as her daughter.
"Aspen!" she whispered quietly, not wanting to alarm the hunter or the prey, "It's me, Mayan. Can I help, somehow?"
She feverently hoped that she hadn't ruined the moment, but she desperately needed instructions. Something to take her mind off of its current plane.