Sekhmet’s questioning did not bother Myrria but at this point she was already distracted by the possible meal that squirms in a dank den nearby. They can pause the conversation for a later time. She passes a quick glance to the larger female without speaking and picks up her pace just a hair. She was moving quickly enough to get to the whelps soon but not enough to cause a ruckus. It helped that her build was lighter than that of her companion and the layer of old, deadened leaves were softened up by the rain.

Her approach was skillful for someone who had only done their hunting in the tundra. To Myrria, hunting in the close shadows that the boughs provided was a breeze compared to wide-open spaces. It was when the whimpering of the small ones became clearer and closer that she slows down enough to survey her surroundings. Her nose lifts into the air as she sniffs for any semblance of a parent. The breeze blowing through whirls around her and solidifies her conclusion that there is no one to protect the pups at the moment. She couldn’t guarantee that it would be that way for long.

With a passing look to Sekhmet there is something that visibly changes in Myrria’s expression. It is as if something else entirely is taking over her; pure, basal instinct or a dark addiction. ”Look out for my left,” she instructs the girl in a solemn voice before darting toward the den. She has learned to live with her partial blindness but if she had an additional pair of eyes looking out for her then she wouldn’t be too proud or stupid to use them. She made quick time to the mouth of the den and dove into it, clawing at the dirt to gain easier access. Her hind paws scraped at the soil above ground as she grasped for the nearest newborn, her jaws snapping onto its frail body before dragging it out and crushing its head. Couldn’t have them screaming for mom or dad.

This continued for the next few minutes until three of them were lain out in a mangled mess at the mouth of the den. Silence overwhelmed the scene as Myrria backed out from the once peaceful abode, her eyes hungrily searching for and landing upon her prized pile. The scent of their mother was not fresh and the lack of a male’s marking was a clear sign that the wolf was another victim of a one-and-done kind of romance. It was how Myrria had her easiest meals in the tundra but they were few and far between. There weren’t many hardy wolves living in the snowy wasteland and those that did usually stuck together. Her deep, berry colored eyes looked for Sekhmet before ducking her head down and tearing at the delicate flesh.