in a dream, the future.

Party poopers, the lot of them.

Róta rolled her eyes at her sisters call for quiet. There was no fun in sneaking, filling the air with the scent of fear was more than half the fun of a hunt, but her brother’s word bought a smile that showed too many teeth to her face. If that was how they wanted to play it, well, she was really hungry, and the scent of the blood smeared on Iðunn's face wasn’t doing much to lower the way her blood moved to thunder through her veins. It was obviously difficult for the youngest to measure her strides to move with the pack. Short and squat, she was best suited to grabbing and holding. An anchor to hold while the others would move in to save whatever they were chasing a drawn out death.

Once the others were in position, she aimed for the back of the elk, planning to sink her teeth into the old cows thick thigh. If she couldn’t hold it still, at least she should be able to open a bleeding wound to help slow it down.

“Speech”