Date: 2020-10-12 04:17 am (UTC)
ofmarble: (vi)
From: [personal profile] ofmarble
Natasha lifts her muzzle to sniff the air, catching the scent of gun oil and old blood and too many shifters. Most of the hunters at least have the with to stay downwind - most, but not all, and she marks the ones who don't. They'll make more mistakes, and once they're down, she can take their weapons for herself. Werewolves shun human tools - that's one of the the favourite assumptions, as though they're born wild, never live as humans, never have jobs or hobbies. They won't be expecting her to shoot back at them, and that will keep her alive a little longer.

She flicks one ear in the direction of the humaniform speaker, an older woman, dark hair beginning to grey, an ugly, knotted scar along her cheek suggesting either an injury taken before her first change, or a bad brush with silver after. She's not wrong, exactly. She's not exactly right, either.

The cat snarls, tail lashing, but it's one of the other wolves who breaks first - a large, grey-furred monster of a thing - and bolts straight for the centre of town. The smallest wolf - dark-furred and too leggy, a juvenile, probably all of fourteen or fifteen in human form - tenses to bolt after him, and Natasha whips around snake-quick to nip at her shoulder with a warning growl. Run without a plan and you won't last the hour.
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Natasha Romanoff

October 2020

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