It was beneficial to have an ally in the far north. In essence, the pair controlled both spectrums of Molodian, letting the darkness fester in north and south so that it could spread and meet in the middle. The hunt in the past had been successful, with minor skirmishes between the pack wolves in their bid for some of the meat. Soon after he had heard the striking call of challenge. Whether the behemoth had come out on top or not was a curious thing. It was in his interest to have her there yet it was also curious to see what might become of her. She had taken the north by force - sadly, not enough to knock off the white wolf permanently - and if she held it against another it would speak volumes of her prowess. Blackthorne had assumed his title rather bloodlessly, with tongue rather than teeth, and he cultivated his ominous air to try and dissuade wolves to come for him. Thus far, it had worked.

It is unsurprising then that in the distance he heard the faint growl. The Darkbringer had been lounging not too terribly far from the border in hopes he might have a visitor and she did not disappoint. While they constantly battled each other in their need for dominance, neither giving in but simply settling, there was a sort of bond of friendship between them. He had need to speak with her anyways but had been waylaid various times and as of yet, had not had the chance.

Fortuitous then, he thinks, as he stalks through the underbrush towards her direction. Burrs drag through his silky coat, mud caked on his paws, a distinctly feline vibe to his graceful walking as he appears. A low chuff is given in return to her, an alert to his approach only out of respect. Charcoal eyes immediately zero in before finding the wound in the way that she leans away from that side. It is minor and would heal. A non-discreet sniff is given in her direction and it is clear that she has come out the victor. Slowly he gives her a smirk.

"Hello Nameless One. I see you are still crowned queen. Congratulations," he suavely purrs, dipping his head to the side in a gesture of respect. Sekhmet had proved her prowess many times over and her viciousness as well. Being Queen had tempered her rage and given her purpose. "Follow me," he abruptly states before turning like a fox back into the brush and taking off a slight jog. It is a short jaunt, perhaps a quarter of an hour, almost a mile before he slows, shoulders sloping as he comes to a halt over two dead carcasses. Swamp muskrat. "A gift for your victory. I assumed you would be by," he adds with a snarky grin before seating himself abruptly.