hunting. small and swift, a rapier to most wolf’s broadswords and sabers, she is a bright splotch in the shadow of trees as she picks her way through bramble and briar. it is thick, this woods through which she travels, and she feels safe. safe, at least, as best as one can be when you are alone.

alone and entirely unqualified to call herself much of a wolf besides.

she survives because she is faster than those she meets and far more agile than she ought to be. what she lacks in strength, she makes up for in speed. what she lacks in size, she makes up for in agility. she outmaneuvers what she cannot outgun and that is most wolf and coyote populations.

her paws are light, but imperfect in her youth, twigs and leaves make sounds as she moves over them. she gives more life to the sounds that the birds and insects make, blending in by not being some devil they fear or angel they respect. she is just a part of the scenery, no great force to recognize, and she leaves much of them alone. ground fowl are her favorite, but she is not hungry and her pace lets the creatures here know it. she is looking for something, though she does not know quite what, and it means that when she tucks into a bramble, there is no explosion of surprised birds bursting from roosts about a foot above her head in the thicket.

iridescent eyes flit back and forth from entry to her her paws and then up at the roof of her little cave of foliage. then, with a light groan, she slips her chin to slot between her paws and rests.