the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives
The red she-wolf is his constant companion. The rest of his pack has drifted (brother, sister; father, mother). Cerva, slipping from the Valley like silk. Nihlus, chasing after the notion of power. Father, distracted by the demands of a crown. And mother, her glowing eyes full of secrets — secrets he has come to mistrust.
Only his wolf remains.
He dreams of her hunts almost every night now — and when his dreams are black and empty without the hunt, he is on edge. On those mornings, even after she returns to him, Daemron emanates irritation. A part of him resents her satiation because he had not shared in it — a part of him craves the adrenaline, the ferocity (the kill).
Today is one of those days.
He stalks through the meadow in search of her, knowing her location by the pull in his chest. In turn, the wolf knows he's coming. She waits for him, crouched over the spoils she'd dragged into the bushes on the outskirts of the meadow at dawn. Now the bones of her kill look grey, cast in shadow by daylight.
Her tongue lolls as she stretches, long-limbed and languid — though when a wayward mare passes near her hiding place, the maned wolf eyes her with wary intelligence. Unaware of the hooded gaze that follows her, the tobiano halts beneath a tree only twenty yards away. The wolf stares at her a while longer — then she huffs dismissively and gnaws idly at grey bones as she waits for Daemron to find her.
He comes upon her with a low rumble in his throat, ears flicking backward as she slinks from the underbrush to close the distance between them. She then peers up at him with an unapologetic look, jaw loose, belly full. "Enjoying ourselves, are we?" He mutters — and when she nips at his heels in response, he snaps his teeth in warning near a long red ear. He was in no mood for her self-satisfaction after his own huntless night.
But he is still curious about the kill. Lowering his chestnut head with its wide, irregular blaze, Daemron peers into the thicket to catch a glimpse of the grey bones. Hare. He might have laughed if it weren't for the disturbing lurch of hunger that twists his stomach so suddenly — for he'd pictured the kill and his brother simultaneously just then. "Come on," he says to her, irritation etched across his expression as he shakes out his willow-mane.
They turn as one then — toward the mare by her tree. He hadn't noticed her until now, but she would have been close enough to witness their interaction. He continues moving as if to pass her by (his mood as black as his dreams), but the red wolf slows, sniffing at her scent with bold familiarity. Daemron's grey eyes find the mare's ice-blue gaze momentarily. Emboldened, his wolf draws even closer. He too finds himself slowing, his eyes (glowing faintly, stark and intense) on the stranger.
He wonders if she'd be afraid.
"Don't mind her," he says in an unconcerned tone, stopping just as the wolf darts forward to nip at a splashed foreleg before reeling away. An instinctive growl rises in his throat like a command, but he swallows it back. Something in him doesn't care whether his wolf drives her off — yet something else in him does. "She won't hurt you." And as the ruddy dog slinks about the mare's haunches (tongue lolling in a mouthful of long teeth) a corner of his lip tilts. Black mood, black humour. "Not while she's full, anyhow."