The carcass of the hare lays within an inch of Fjallraven's muzzle which at the moment was pressed to the ground, her eyes focused upwards at the hulking figure of her mother who paced back and forth with her yellow eyes focused solely upon the stick-thin figure of her daughter. This has always been the game of their life; her mother would hunt, almost always successfully, whereas Fjallraven was nothing. She was too pitiful to even hunt for she had never been taught how. Some things were born from instincts but a lifetime at the heels of one such as her mother had left her nothing but utterly dependent. That same learned behavior is what has her pressed to the earth, a whine stuck in the back of her throat but oddly silent, for she knows that if she were to give in to the growling of her stomach and even touch a hair on that body... another strike would be added to her bony hips.

It is a wonder she has survived this long, though her body attests to the fact that she does not get nearly enough nourishment. She should be vicious. She should be jaded. But she simply waits for her mother's bidding with the patience of one both afraid and adoring. She was a fool - Fjallraven knew this. Yet how can one sever such a bond between mother and child? A bond that existed only on Fjallraven's end, for her mother had no love for her. The light gray of her mothers fur is shiny and thick and her body swells with muscle and fat. Fjallraven is a charcoal skeleton. Her hips jut out and her ribs can be seen at an angle, along with the scars that are hidden by her medium length silken hair, just as thick as her mothers.

"Now." Her mothers voice is coarse where Fjallraven's is as beautiful as a larks, angelic even, though she hardly uses it. Immediately her nose darts out and snatches the animal, quickly devouring one leg but by the look of impatience on her mothers face she does not have long. The moment her mother makes to snap at her Fjallraven drops the food and cowers back, letting the woman consume the rest and feeling bereft. A few bites is not nearly enough to fill the aching chasm in her belly but she never complains.

Her mother doesn't need to tell her anything now. The moment she turns Fjallraven is at her heels, head down and tail following suit, slinking along as her mother's greater strides press her into breathlessness. It doesn't matter - she loves her.

They meander through the forest and Fjallraven knows no sense of direction. The only compass she needs is the gray fur in front of her. It is only with surprise that she notes finally that they have broken from the tree line into a mossy covered area with a small, gurgling waterfall to the left and a couple of males before them.

Her mother does not hesitate, her own figure coming to stop before them with a bow of her head; Fjallraven stands behind her mother like a shadow, her face uncertain, her eyes never holding one thing for long. "Demon Lords. I beseech you. I ask for your protection from a mate I have wronged. In return you can have my daughter, if she is of any value to you despite her weakness and her size." It is clear by her tone that Fjallraven is nothing but puny in her eyes, a waste, and something easily given though the greed in her soul aches for more than just protection.