The helpless little vermin squirmed and struggled beneath the insurmountable heft of her paw, placed decisively against the back of the field mouse. The sensation of its downy coat was peculiar, titillating, against the rounded bulb of her pads; the timely, ever mounting, pulse of its lifeblood as it squelched within tiny veins would have maddened the yearling had she been prone to such flippant predatory folly. Instead she merely lowers her petite cranium, the fleshy slab of her tongue flicking from behind its cage of ivory to stroke a languid trail against the terrified mouse’s head. The answering shriek from her quarry is nothing if not absolutely and unequivocally entertaining, the painfully quickening thrum of the vermin’s heart against her paw echoed respectively in the hastened pacing of her own spongy organ for a rare moment of delighted indulgence. A moment that is marked by its brevity as the cool wash of instinct once again fastens itself to Maud’s consciousness, the knowledge that the ruckus that her plaything is raising shall surely attract unwanted attention dictating her next move. The gesture is swift, fleeting and beautiful in its precision, the young wolf moving to clasp the mouse’s head with salacious tenderness betwixt the tangle of her jaws before the muscles pull taut over bone, clenching only once… the shrill screams dying with the muffled cracking of bone.

Maud readies herself, her every intention to indulge in the spoils that have become of her efforts; the meal is hardly a substantial one, and certainly not the largest kill of which she is capable of even given her youth. However, the undeniable matter of her success is enough to fathom some manner of glee within this dark little soul… independence calls to her, curling its delectable finger in her direction to tempt her ever onward. Soon enough, far sooner than she is to know for a certainty, she shall require no other presence apart from her own. Maud is built for survival as her mother was, cunning and ruthless in all things just as her sire was known to be. The blood of Abraxus and Harridan had made her, the vehement vitality of her genetic build having bred this creature so beautifully suited for so much more than just the task of survival. A fact that is not wholly abandoned as the earth at her feet begins to tremble with such wretched fervor that it nearly robs her of her footing…

Nearly.

Spires of charcoal pelt rise in a sinister line down the length of her back as the yearling crouches, her lithe chassis hugging the sodden loam beneath her, the twisted and disheveled carcass of the field mouse all but forgotten as it lay in a heap between her paws. The shift lasts only but a matter of moments; however, the roar of splitting earth echoes for far longer… absorbed almost fearfully by the wooden totems that shelter her, the trees themselves set atremble with the effort. The smoke-ridden she-wolf ventures tentatively from her position, moving with the very same care and precision that has been taught to her on many an occasion by her equally as stealthy dam. Maud is as a snake, whispering across the terrace in a manner that could only be described as serpentine, amber eyes peering onward and falling upon something… new.

The aroma of fresh earth slides against every gland, piquing a curiosity already set aflame by the vision of this series of sunken mouths sucked into the earth; a fragrance mingling in tantalizing harmony with that of something far more… alive. It is not difficult to find the source of this latter upheaval, the blackened wolf moving unfettered and, seemingly, unafraid of exposing himself to whatever curious eyes might be peering on. This youngster, no older than she, belongs to a pack, this she knows for a certainty. This axiomatic truth oozes from him in nauseating waves, affirmed by his every movement: the way in which he ventures about, alone, and yet the self-affirmation of his presumed safety is irrefutable. He is bereft the weariness that has been ingrained so deeply within herself; not a fear, but an ever-present suspicion of those she knows not. Safety for a rogue is never presumed, never assured.

Her lithe frame seeps from the cluster of bushes in which she has chosen to conceal herself, her senses immediately alerting her to the presence of… something that lies beyond the realm of the ordinary. Something, or someone, lingers just beyond the scope of her eyes. Amber pools flicker about, landing upon a tangle of roses, the object of her intense interest for a time, the rapidly twitching bulb of her nose assuring her only that something, she knows not what, lies beneath the sickly sweetness of the budding roses. A moment of consideration dictates her statuesque poise before the yearling bitch moves onward, keeping her senses trained in no small part upon the thorny mesh she leaves in her wake.

The black and tanned pup has descended into the unknown darkness that awaits all who should transcend into the mouth of the cavern, Maud’s amber eyes watching him intently. They are alike in their curiosity, their shared quest for the unknown; and yet Maud is all too willing to allow this naïve youth to take the plunge before her. Let him face the dangers of sating this youthful curiosity… should he perish for his folly, she shall know not to proceed with her own adventure. A pointed glance is given to the highly-suspicious rose bush at her back before delicate paws alit upon the first step, the false warmth of her eyes peering down unto the body that moves ahead of her. Unable, or perhaps unwilling, to stay her usually silent tongue, Maud hisses into the darkness that separates her body from that of her quarry. ”They say curiosity killed the cat… what do you suppose it will do to you?”