As he always did, Larkspur hunted as a wolf. He had observed others use their two legged form, armed with pointy sticks and bows and all sorts of contraptions, but found this to be tiresome. His hands were stupid and could not craft fine weapons, just as they could not wield them. He was suited to hard work instead—between the horse, the house, and the boy, his hands were full. Though his ward was kin, the name and peculiar draw to arcane places was where the resemblance ended. Harlowe was much softer then Larkspur, having been raised as a pack wolf, and it showed.

While he worked the boy as hard as he could, Larkspur could not rely on him for food. Furthermore, as a Jager, his role was to hunt not only for himself but for the pack as a whole. Conor, whom Larkspur had seen only once, had never called upon him for this. Haku had known better then to ask. The only thing that Larkspur had owed Haku was battle, which he had participated in dutifully. Beyond that, he was left alone.

Larkspur enjoyed being alone. He never felt truly alone as long as he wore the can tah, for its whispering voice comforted him daily. Some nights, when he could not sleep, he would go back to the blue pool where he and Eris had gone (where the smell of death had left, buried in the earth) and stare into the water and listen. Sometimes the eagle spoke, and sometimes the water spoke. Larkspur held conversations with the spiders in the language of the dead, which they seemed to respond to.

This was his way. So too, was the hunt. He stalked through overgrown trails like a wraith, feet soft despite his large size. Ahead of him, a patch of underbrush moved. Almost instantly, the wolf had charged it. He spooked the hare into a chase, which lasted only seconds. He had been lucky in startling the now-dead hare, which hung triumphantly in his jaws. While the big male could have eaten the thing in a few bites, he began carrying it back towards his home. After all, he had to attend to his rather smart, but rather useless ward.

It didn’t take long for the sound of feet to catch up with him. Larkspur slowed as they did. Not long after a black and white girl was in his way. The scarred wolf wondered if she dyed her white fur to get such an effect. His own had grown out in patches, but sections still carried orange-yellow bleach marks. Misery had not been around to aid him in a long time. Age was turning him white quite well, though he believed the bird-shaped mark on his chest was aided by the can tah around his neck. He had, after all, been chosen by it.

The girl was lithe and thin, more feline in her movement then canine, and he lifted his ears to her voice. It was, in his opinion, lovely. Certainly as pretty as her red eyes. The color red was still so fascinating to him. Dropping to his haunches the hunter placed his prize between his white paws. His orange eyes focused on her face, but no other signs of a traditional greeting would come from him. Larkspur lacked experience in social graces and this showed. “Larkspur. Y’need something?” That peculiar accent still clung to his voice, as it would for the rest of his life. His deep, strong tone sounded almost barbaric next to her own.

He watched her performance, and some part of him instinctively recognized it was respect. He had seen others do the same to higher ranks, though he himself was ignorant of such trends. Lack of socialization had turned him into a brute, crushing any hope of normalcy from his life the moment he was treated differently because of his fur. That was changing, though. He was finding the right path because his fur was changing, and the scars on his arm told him this as well as the can tah, which even now whispered things he heard but did not respond to.

The girl looked at his kill. While there was no physical hunger in her eyes, he recognized the same shade he saw in his nephew and in King. A hunger for something greater then what they knew. Larkspur did not feel his face begin to smile, long before she asked a question that seemed too young for her intelligent face. The Jager flicked one ear. “No,” he said shortly. His pupils shrank for a moment, focusing inward, listening to a voice he alone heard, and then widened as if the answer had been provided to him. “Killin' ain’t that hard at all,” he added. He spoke this indifferently, as if the weight of life was something he did not understand.

Perhaps he did see these things in her; weakness, doubt. Perhaps he could read her thoughts, as the can tah around his neck made him believe he could. Perhaps she was not all that different then his wards, though he doubted King would hesitate to kill. Larkspur’s eyes went foggy as he considered the quiet question, as if he was tearing apart the words and stitching them back together to make sense of the matter. Slowly, his eyes regained their focus, sharpening on the painted face of the little girl.

Incredibly, Larkspur smiled. “It’s ain’t that hard,” he repeated. His accent remained, but the words seemed clearer. “The first time is. After that it gits easy. It's prey.” He used this word but did not look to the rabbit. The rabbit was prey, but other things could be prey as well. Things with a conscious. Things with a soul. “Y’focus on prey and y’do what needs done. First time it’s gonna be rough. But then it gits easy.” In his simple world, this was all that needed to be said. He repeated himself because it was truly that simple. Larkspur knew what he killed felt. He had known that the first time a rabbit had screamed like a woman.

He wondered, sometimes, if all children were the same. Lark had encountered the same sort of stubbornness in both his nephew and in King (whom he also looked down on as a nephew) and now saw it in this girl’s open face. She would need to learn to hide that. It would be a weakness if she could not. The dark wolf’s eyes went hazy for a moment, as if drawing inward. Perhaps he was. His ears twitched as if a voice was speaking, but the forest lacked any voices save those of noisy birds.

It did not take him long to come out of the momentary trance. “Y’know how to hunt?” He asked shortly, observing her small, delicate frame. Today’s lesson might be two-fold if she could not. Given her age, though, he doubted there was much experience. This too, was echoed by the scent of the young leader on her pelt. Conor had struck Larkspur as a weak person, much weaker than his father, and he didn’t doubt the boy’s softness would have worn off on his wards.

That's okay by me! I'm having a lot of fun with this thread.

The girl was lithe, and he had no doubt her words were true. With her tiny paws and quiet voice he would not have been surprised if she was able to be silent in the forest. It was for this reason that he said nothing as she explained herself. To another, it might have sounded like bragging. So too often did children gloat of their small exploits, but adults were twice as bad because they were supposed to know better. Even if she did not, he would not have scolded her. If she could do then she would not be lying.

Perhaps she lacked that basic instinct he believed all predators had. Perhaps something was wrong in her that prevented that from occurring. Yet as the wolf looked into those bright eyes, he doubted this was the case. Whatever else the girl was, she could be a killer. All children could be taught to kill. They were moldable little things, and he now understood why it was Misery had wished for him to have children. “Let’s find a rabbit,” he said, sparing a glance to the dead thing at his feet. A mouse would be easier, or a vole. But a rabbit would do what neither of these things could.

A rabbit would scream.

He could have told her where to find the best rabbits, or how to hunt, but this was not his duty. He could have turned her away and sent her back home, to a leader who was so weak in Larkspur’s eyes he did not see him as such. Yet the D’Angelo was quiet as he watched her eyes flicker and change, watched as she considered and finally made up her mind. His face did not move. He had boys who were learning to do this same thing—King responding better than Harlowe, but without the same conviction—and did not need to waste his time on a girl-child.

A voice whispered in his ears and they swiveled, but his face betrayed nothing. He had learned much since coming to these lands. Larkspur rose to his feet and followed after her, a broad-shouldered wolf with burning eyes. They could have been kin, given both their odd fur patterns. “If this is how y’hunt,” he grunted, speaking of her form. “Y’best keep an eye open fer the holes.” He had almost twisted a paw slipping in one, and was certain she could do the same with her small feet. “When y’do catch it—“ when, not if “—I’ll tell y’what to do.” It still surprised him she would not know instinctively. Then again, Larkspur was utterly devoid of pack-wolf instincts himself.

This was what power felt like. Larkspur now realized why it had driven Haku mad (if he had not been mad before it was given) and drank in the knowledge like fine wine. The girl was not only obeying him, but she did so without question. A rush ran through his body, causing the hair along his spine to stand on end. It was deliriously wonderful sensation. The hunter’s jaws parted to reveal yellowing teeth and he drank in the scents around him. Anticipation rolled off the girl in waves, masking the fear-scent under this. There were a thousand other smells and distractions but the wolf was a single-minded predator and knew what awaited them.

She ran and he followed, a step or two behind, certain that she was playing with the frightened thing. This made the corners of his mouth curl up into a terrible grin. Only when she was close enough did his voice break the moment. “It’s back,” he barked, certain she was not skilled enough to snap the neck. Beyond this he had other plans in mind—if she hesitated to make the killing blow (which he believed she would) the poor animal’s voice would beg her to do so in a shriek.

A sweet and terrible scream broke from the scrawny rabbit’s throat. The black and white wolf opened his mouth as if to savor the sound on his tongue. It tasted like copper and sunk down his throat. Larkspur stopped running almost instantly. Still as death the scarred wolf waited, saw her not only kill but rend the beast as she struck. His pupils widened once more, seeking to swallow the image whole. Blood not that different from the color of her eyes had stained the pretty white fur he himself so envied.

Then the can tah whispered and Larkspur’s eyes sharpened at an uncanny speed. His ears turned before his head did, whipping around to the land behind them. Though they were upwind, he could hear the approaching stranger. The burly male bristled. He was not used to his own pack sneaking around him. The Khalif were different. The Khalif might have done so with blood on their mind. With the memory of this and the shadows of a war hanging over him the D’Angelo was tense. “Y’best come out,” he warned. If the stranger was a foe, he would deal with them as such.