It was a day not unlike many others since before winter had closed her off from leaving and the whole opening of spring had left her too comfortable to change her course anyway. The winter was not easy, not alone, but she had found that creatures of this island cluster were far from boring and far from timid. She was able to warrioress her way through blizzard and mudslides alike, winter and spring harsh enough not to leave her dozy. Just enough punishment of Mother Nature to keep her on her toes, just enough peace between storms to keep from getting burned out.
So she roamed. Here and there, testing boundaries even of the various islands owned by masters she had no desire to compete with. She doesn’t want the possession of a place, only the fruits of the earths labor and the enemies that harried her kind for sustenance. Perhaps that is why she is not chased or tormented, leaving coyotes and wolves behind herself. Loners, certainly, she was not so stupid as to try to take on a pack on her own -- though let them come to her and she would gladly test her mettl---
A shrieking yowl rips through the air behind her and she looses is a bellow worthy of a horse twice her height and girth. She answers it’s warcry with her own because she, not even surprised from her thoughts, could not stand to remain quiet in a battle for her life.
It latches claws into her shoulder as it tries to stop it’s leap atop her back-- but she is wise to it’s tricks, having had her share of she-cats try for her hide before. She was slipping, this one having caught flesh at all. It’s hindclaws miss, the momentum keeping the cat from digging in like a tick. A second scream, but this one in defiance against her canny response to a surprise attack from the mountain lion. She doesn’t bother a second time to answer with her own. Instead, she is hammering her hooves into the dirt, throwing herself into crow hops and uneven leaps to try and loosen a fixed hold enough… practiced as she is, young as the cat is, she does this in no short order.
The cats backend swings within range of her mouth and a soft groin is crushed between teeth meant for sheering plants and crushing it into pulp. Not the tearing fangs of the cat, but damaging enough - surprising enough - that the cat releases her neck and shoulder to swat wildly at her face. It is a mistake, though, as she stops short, using her cease of motion and the cats lack of hold to throw it to the ground within reach of her hooves.
Slam, slam, slam, crunch, crunch, pop. The sucking sound that comes at the end is graphic enough to make her shake despite her love of the victory. She had heard nothing worse than that sound - and yet some part of her revels in the safety it awarded. It was a lucky shot, of course, on a flailing target trying to get away - but she finds herself loosening the sharp pains in her punctured hide just as if she had no care about the ordeal in the slightest. She knows the luck, she knows the potential alternative, and she lets the relief wash over her like the spill of the Falls only newly opened by the spring thaw.