A shoot breaks beneath a slender alabaster paw and she pauses. A deep breath in, a slow breath out, and then the stalking begins in earnest. Her narrow muzzle lowers between pointed shoulders and she glides across the ground in relative silence, each step measured and weighed and place with extreme caution. The herd of deer she stalks are oblivious despite the frequent flicking of ears. Bison groan in the distance, uncaring of the figure that hunts away from them; she is nothing to them, a slender scrap of a creature. Alone she can do little. To them, perhaps. But alone she could accomplish much. She already has. Muscle coils smoothly beneath her soft fur, honed and trained since birth to be the ultimate killer. Never has she wanted for anything, save perhaps love and affection, and only as a pup. As an adult she had purpose.

Isn't that all we ever strive for anyways?

The fawn that rests in the high summer grasses pants, her tiny face seemingly glazed with incomprehension. The heat here is unbearable. How these wolves suffered it was beyond Arace. Her own body rebelled against it at every turn, her lungs seizing and her muscles cramping. It had taken days in this place to acclimate properly. The tundras of the north were much more suitable, although she had heard the word drought spoken in scathing tones. Heat and thirst made creatures desperate. Made them do things they normally would not.

The fawn and her mother's herd are sheltering in a shaded meadow at the base foothills of the mountains and the bison are spread out along the wide plains at Arace's back. It is only because she is facing the north-western direction that she spies movement in the distance. She pauses in her slinking movements, golden eyes with white streaks turning to survey the figure with the poise of a hunting cat. He is healthy and strong. A warrior, she deduces, but more than either of this things: he is silver. It is a long shot to try and hunt down her half brother with as little description as she has but she aspires to cleverness. This was a challenge and her blood sings for challenges.

She moves away from the herd just as quietly and efficiently as she had moved towards it. The fawn will never know how close it came to death on this day and will remember it only by its extreme distaste of heat. Arace takes a long curving path around the herd and into the brush, ending up on a well traveled path. It is clear that this pack, for it most certainly is a pack, was well guarded. She does not pause or stop, she merely finds herself a rabbit hole nearby, places her paw in, and yelps loudly. If she was lucky the male she had spied earlier would come racing to see who was at the border and what the yelp was for. If he does come she will pull her paw up just as he appears, as if she had not seen it, and she will hold it up and whine.

So begins her first play.