Iskandor's ears swiveled sharply at the sound of the stranger’s cry—a wretched noise that gave cause for concern. His gaze darted toward them, his focus torn momentarily from the dying tiger. He saw their form collapse, his brows furrowing. The sight made something twist inside him—a sense of urgency. Without hesitation he abandoned the tiger’s lifeless form, his nostrils flaring as the smell of blood and bile filled the air. His mother wouldn’t turn away from someone in need, nor would he. Iskandor moved swiftly, his stride purposeful yet cautious as he approached.
“Hey,” he growled low, voice heavy with concern. He dropped his head close, scanning them for further injuries. "Hey are you-" he began, until his ears caught something—a rustle. His body stiffened, his head snapping toward the noise in lieu of the fight with the tiger. The tension in his muscles still keeping him on edge, and good thing for it. He needed it now.
A low growl rumbled in his throat as he scented the wind, catching the musk of coyote. Damn. He turned his gaze back to the fallen pup, not much older than himself, his piercing blue eyes narrowing on them. “Come on, on your feet. We aren’t done yet. They'll turn you into dinner if you don't get up.” he said, quietly warning them while gesturing towards the rustle of undergrowth. Without waiting for a reply, Iskandor positioned himself between them and the encroaching threat, his stance firm, his shoulders squared.
His mind raced as he listened to their movements, trying to calculate how many there were before the three smaller predators stepped out of their cover—snarling and daring him to run and leave the prizes to them. The tiger and the stranger.
