It's dark--darker than on the road, because the treetops block the brightest of the moonbeams. Casrial is blessed with good eyes, though, and she and the wolf move nearly silently between the trees. The goat trailing them is quiet as well, though not nearly quiet enough; Casrial isn't sure how much longer she'll wait before carrying it. The woods are still and quiet suddenly, and both the wolf cub and Casrial freeze. Casrial eases her grip on her throwing knife and lays her hand on another, letting her ancient teacher's guidance wash over her, calming her.
Casrial has never lived for the hunt. She is too used to being the hunted, too used to the frantic chase and the narrow escape--or, even worse, the dreaded capture.
Tonight is for teaching, though, no danger from predators with two legs or more. She ducks into a crouch as the small ground animal makes its way between the trees to the right.
"Ash'kaelok," she whispers, and Heorot tenses, examining the situation. It is a game of instincts that they play--theirs versus the prey--and the wolf cub has yet to learn which to trust and which to ignore. "Go!"
And the wolf prowls forward one step, two, three, nearly out of sight and nearly silent. Casrial's hands are ready with her knives in case she needs to intervene, but she's not willing to take the kill from the pup, not when Heorot has so much left to learn.
The tackle is swift and graceless, but it does the trick as the animal falls under Heorot's sharp claws and teeth. "Trigt," Casrial tells her, and for a moment, she fears Heorot's bloodlust has gotten ahold of her.
But no, Heorot knows which hands prepare her dinner, and she obediently--if reluctantly--takes the dying animal carcass gently in her mouth and lays it at Casrial's feet. Then Heorot barks once, a gleeful sound of puppy-triumph, and rubs her bloody mouth up against Casrial's pants.
Casrial lets Heorot carry the dead animal as they head back towards the road to Barton town, marvelling at Heorot's restraint. Then she realizes she now needs new pants.
The goat continues to trail behind them both, looking just as grumpy as ever. It no longer treads silently, nor does Heorot; Casrial wears her silence like a freezing man wears a blanket, wrapped tightly around her at all times. Her footprints make little impression on the earth and little noise in the making, and she wonders if it will always be thus for her in the world.
