Although Sorcha has spent much of the past few seasons focusing her time on the land around her - for what better way was there to commune with the spirit of the world than to simply become one with it? - she had not forgotten her duties of the mountain. Merely she had went about them with a quiet sort of smile on her face that held some unknowable secret, her moss colored eyes alighting upon other wolves with a dip of her head or a congenial wave of her tail. Ramiel was around somewhere, she knew, for she could feel the bond. Over time that bond had become less of a thing that constantly drew her attention as she had grown used to it but she still often focused upon it and checked on him, her need to be near him a thing that seemed mirrored on his end at times. Sorcha! The mountains are safe, the sprite voices whispered in her ears with giggles and teals of laughter; what her eyes could not see straight, her mind could comprehend.

She has been moving for a few hours on the far end of the territory, her nose twitching and her body preparing to kill. As much as she preferred the berries that grew along the bank of her most treasured storytelling spot she was not here for herself. Today she had something special in mind for she had heard the usurper's challenging call ring across the mountain tops. It was almost disheartening to hear all the challenges being thrown across the land of Molodian for her heart twinged at the needless violence. It was in the nature of some, she knew, to crave dominance, yet why would they target packs in which the land flourish beneath the rule of their keepers? In which wolves gladly gave their loyalty to their alphas for their many kindnesses? It seemed a moot point.

Yet she was assured in the very marrow of her bones that her alphess would not lose today. That Sorcha would not be without a home come the afternoon for she had seen a fierceness inside of Daenery's upon meeting her that bespoke of a strong - if trouble - childhood and lifetime. A flash of gray catches her eye and her head turns in much the way a cat's would - slow and steady. A rabbit sits in a small clearing with it's little mouth twisting back and forth as it chews. For a moment it pauses, sniffing and ears turning to and fro, then it continues. Life is precious - prey or predator - and she sends a prayer to the gods of the world that thanks them for their nourishment and blessing the rabbit before her.

Then she strikes, nimble and svelte, darting forward until she is in a chase and the hare is frantically trying to get away. But Sorcha's paws fall on either side of it a moment before she grabs it by the back and her jaws snap down. It struggles with a cry of denial before it falls limp, giving in to it's inevitable demise, and she adjusts her grip to snap its neck. "Blessed be your life, little rabbit. May you forage in the beyond," she murmurs, her voice pure and beautiful, and then she has it in her mouth and is wandering back inwards at the cry of Daenery's.

Her body stretches into a lope and she moves inwards and upwards towards the throne meadow, as she calls it, where a bunch of wolves have seated themselves before a glorious Daenery's. Sorcha passes them with a wave of her tail and moves before Daenery's, lowering her head to drop the rabbit at her feet. "To celebrate your success and also to replenish your strength. I know a little of herb lore if you have need of assistance, Daenery's." She turns her head now to where Rhaegal has moved, offering him an almost secretive smile, for he is by far her favorite of the princes (not that Sorcha would ever, ever admit such a thing). She steps back now and to the side, out of the way of the loved ones of her Queen, knowing that Dany would ask assistance if she needed it.