stretching new legs

Let's decide to be the architects, the masters of our fate

With the hare good and dead, Noah let his jaw relax and he dropped the creature in the snow. Adrenaline still coursed through his veins, mixing and pooling with pride and satisfaction. He looked to the raven, his own blue eyes alight with the hunt. Noah didn't know, but he surely looked like any other snow-cat on these arctic plains after a hunt. Blood stained the corners of his lips and a sandpaper tongue came to the rescue. The man recoiled on his haunches, the snow hardly even a noticeable factor. He beamed through the bond.

'I wouldn't have thought of it either, but I guess that gods know something I don't.' He remarked, thinking back to how his father taught him that all shifts were god-given, from something they knew within the heart of the attuned. It was a small fraction of knowledge that Noah held of the gods. It was really all his parents had given him. After all, until two years ago, the heralds of the gods and even the gods themselves seemed more faitytale than real life. Noah lifted a paw to lick blood from between his paws. 'You want the pelt from this guy?' Noah asked, using his now-clean paw to point at the dead, white hare. His true question, which he was not sure he waned to ask, was how Korbin was doing. The tone of his voice gave Noah hope, at the very least.

NOAH