ooc:
Quiet steps across the dew laden grass led the Nomad as far as her legs could carry her. They lacked the dexterity of a more rested soul, falling heavily and sound on the ground as she stumbled along. One might have thought the woman was ill with how the lumbered through the hardily wooded fields. And she would contest with the claim that she was in decent health; little more than a cold that impaired her and dried her nose to an unpleasant itch.
Periodically she would brush her nose within the gentle damp blades but it did little to alleviate the irritation. Just more of the same unpleasant itching until she decided it held little true importance and carried on with her task. She needed food. A fawn would do, since the Shepard did not feel confident that her strength could down a bulk on her own. Many a time she had down so with her impressive size, but at the moment, instinct compelled her to take a safer course. One that would ensure she would return to the den alive though it was the last place she wanted to be.
Lowering her muzzle to part through the dampness, she wandered along keeping her sense open for the hint of fodder. Her hunting companions remained within the pack on her request, to act as their alarm should danger appear. Leaving her to utilize her own senses as she had done all her life, and relearn what she knew of the primitive hunt. The dampness of the grass tried to stifle the scent but it was still there within the blades, fresh and new. The Nomad further quieted her steps as she lowered her body to assume the predator’s crouch within the thatch and brush. The snag and pull of dried flora to her mane went unheeded and she persisted onward, keeping all her senses open for hint of her quarry.