This is why she never hunted before, she thinks, forgetting for a moment that she has never been allowed to hunt. Jericho has been patient with her so far and had included her in this hunt. As far as she knew all she had to do was keep them penned in around him but even that she had failed. Really when prey looked upon her scraggly figure, beautiful though she could be, it was doubtful they felt fear. Here was a wolf who didn't know how to be a wolf really. Didn't know how to exist as her own independent being. Fjallraven had been raised to be a shadow, a meek, obedient shadow, and she had excelled at that. After a few trial and error lessons of course, marked by the scars on her pretty pelt.

Jericho nears her and she can see the ease of his face now. Some people had that certain element to them and this seemed to be his. Except that he limped, a limp she has thus far been so blinded to in her eagerness, and she wonders if a racoon grabbed his leg. Could their teeth pierce his hide and the thick muscles that curve along his leg? Maybe that is why the racoon's leg is broken, a sort of revenge for the attack on Jericho, she thinks, but she is still so stuck on her own unworthiness that she does not even mention it. Yet.

Yet his words gentle her anxious heart and her eyes perk up, looking at him in relief. He wasn't mad at her. She had almost thought he'd take his coon and leave her once he realized how weak she was. Like a newborn pup in the semi-adult body that she carried. "I'm not sure I'd be a good warrior, I'm too small," she answers to him, a sad note to her voice. Hadn't her mother told her over and over again how weak she was because she was so small? She was a runt, a mistake, an abomination. Anyone could easily tear out her throat.

The squeal of the racoon has her eyes slipping past Jericho but they jolt back in surprise as he licks her nose. She closes her eyes for a moment, happy at the contact for it eases the edge off her tense, thin muscles. Jericho is a good teacher. She would learn from him, would try to make him proud of teaching her. There, now come and let us ease his pain. Her eyes open as she trails behind him with reluctant steps, eying the coon with a morbid fascination and a bit of fear. His cries are that of her own, she thinks, helpless and hurting, and a part of her wants to comfort the poor creature. But her belly rumbles and the smell of blood makes her mouth water so that it is hard to keep the saliva from spilling out.

As she stares at that coon in clear combat with herself Jericho moves up behind her and pushes against her hips, gentle, but the act startling her so that she presses her tail in between her legs and shoots him an uncertain look. All he is doing is trying to give her the push she needs, she knows that and so she turns back to the defiant, pained animal. He encourages her and she wants to eat but looking into the eyes of the animal she also feels something tearing inside of her. She was like this racoon when cornered, crying out for help, and wolves had helped her. But no one was coming to help the racoon.

Suddenly she is overcome by her hunger. The lack of action brings it to the forefront of her mind and Fjallraven darts forward, ears laced back and eyes narrowed as her jaw catches the racoon on the back of it's neck. In one vicious shake she lifts the fat critter and the snap of bone reveals her success. Just as quick she drops it and her eyes water as she looks at it, one small paw reaching out to press the racoon in certainty. "Why do I feel like this, Jericho? I feel sad for him." Yet even as she says this her instinct begins to kick in and her nose is pressed into the fur of the racoon, sniffing, tongue lancing across her maw before her eyes shift to him.

Fjallraven sinks down low now and slinks away from the kill, looking at him in the same way she had always watched her mother. He had caught the racoon, he gets first pick. Despite what her belly tells her to do.