It was supposedly early winter, but the cold already cut through Riot like you wouldn't believe. She was filled with complaints, and only prepared for it to get worse. Fucken freezing. Black as her mood was, the creature makes her way north of the packlands. Hackles up, gaze narrowed. Gait stiff, as she shakes away the winter chill. Head low, gaze intent. Searching for a scent. It doesn't take Iscariot long to find one, foul as it may be. Nose wrinkling as the distinctive musk ox scent hits her face, biting back a wretch or a gag. Disgusting, but good enough. Eyes narrowing as she closes in on the scent, moving toward the source. Finally spotting the herd around a sharp bend, pausing for a moment to take stock of it. Thank fuck there was a weanling calf hovering around, and she wouldn't need to get too close.

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The cold of the north does not bother Zeke, in fact, the young man actually finds it comforting. Paws quietly pick their way onward, nose pulling in the scents of nearby prey as he goes. On the breeze is the familiar scent of their pack and he quickly adjusts his course to intercept the other hunter that is in the area.

Quietly, Ezekiel moves through the land, careful to keep downwind of the herd of musk ox that seems to be their target. Moving toward the purple woman, the young man comes to stop close to her, eyeing the herd of ox before casting his duel-toned eyes over to the female. With an incline of his head and a lifted brow, he silently questions if they will be going in.


"Ezekiel Saxe"

She's quick. All of her is quick, fidgety, not nervous but something else. Something far closer to unhinged. Riot doesn't need to be kept on the rails to be an effective fighter, to be efficient. Deadly. Head low to the ground, her gaze fixed on the herd of oxen. No longer alone, but with Ezekiel somewhere off to her side. Fine, she'd accept the help, this time. Seek and destroy, but this time with intent. Like a bat out of hell, Iscariot takes off after the weanling ox calf. Teeth gnashing, snarling and snapping as she cuts it from the herd. Driving herself forward, pushing, forcing-- all of Riot is fearsome in this moment.

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There is a quiet acceptance, a silent understanding that they will help each other bring down the musk ox calf because it is what has to be done. Alone, it would be difficult but together, it was doable. Iscariot is off, racing toward the herd while making a beeline for a young calf in their midst.  Ezekiel is behind her, hot on her tail as he adds to her snarls, effectively spooking the entire herd while working to cut the larger ox off from the calf that they will be taking.

One of larger males stops, pivots toward them and bellows, head lowering in a show of defiance as it attempts to threaten the two hunters. Zeke snarls, darting in without a moments waste to deliver a sharp bite to its face before rushing away toward the rapidly shrinking forms of the calf and the tiny wolf. The ox gets the message, turning to flee with the rest of herd as they leave the calf to its fate. Snow flies up behind him as he barrels toward the pair, ready to take down the animal.


"Ezekiel Saxe"

Cutting between the ox and its calf, knowing a meal is near. Iscariot's tongue flicks across her teeth, shoulders pitching forward, gaze burning. Pure excitement, pure energy. There's nothing that can hold her back, nothing that can stop her. Iscariot is the inevitable, and the inevitability is death. Pleased with herself, pleased that she is nature. Nature working as intended. Fucking brilliant. Teeth shining as they sink into the calf at last, reaching for its neck. Pushing at the creature, sending it sprawling. Then, it's all Iscariot can do to not get caught up in it, sucked under. Maintaining her balance easily enough as she lashes out, brilliant and brutal. Fucking fabulous.

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