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Ithiel is by Raze!
The dusky-furred hybrid was outfitted as normal when scouting the borders. He rarely wore his sword, as it was not one of his better weapons; instead, the dusky-furred hybrid had his bow and his quiver and a small dagger. The thick leather covering his arm and chest creaked and squeaked as he shifted in the saddle. He reached up to his ribs and scratched absent-mindedly, glancing skyward in time to see Zedekiah swooping in quickly.
Lystra snorted and stamped her feet when the big bird came in to land on one of the branches before Ithiel, muttering and squawking his alarm. Zedekiah was not one for talking much -- instead, the bird bobbled his head and hissed, long and low. Border, he muttered. Border border border, he insisted, shifting from one foot to the other as Ithiel brought his chestnut mare to a stop before his chosen perch. Forest, Zedekiah muttered again. Hunt, kill. Wolf, wolf, wolf, he repeated, and with two great flaps of his wide wings, launched into the air.
It was all Ithiel needed -- the dust-colored hybrid kicked his horse in its sides and goaded her forward, an insistent alarm ringing in the back of his mind. Wolves on the borders -- Boreas again? The hybrid drove Lystra to a gallop and they raced across the marshlands, heading toward Hallow's Ruins and the thin tree cover they provided. Before long, the dusky coyote's crimson eyes saw them. Well on Inferni's territory, and with a horse. The dust-colored hybrid pulled Lystra to a more comfortable pace, bit on her reins, and drew an arrow from his quiver in the same motion that brought his bow up to bear. He aimed, and -- hesitated.
A girl and a child. Why do they always have children? he thought, as he loosed the arrow. It sank into the ground several feet from them, and Ithiel brought his horse to a stop with a tug of his muzzle as he reached for another arrow and notched it. Shifting the reins with his tongue, the dusky hybrid growled a verbal warning to accompany the shot. Out, he roared, his voice not so much as muffled by the leather in his mouth. I will not warn you again, he said, drawing the bowstring back.
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