The young hellhound had come towards the filly, who had weaved her tale to the skull of the raven and stood back, stunned that the gates were swinging open. Joy was clear upon the grin that curved her delicate features, but it soon furrowed into a concerned frown, as the young mare knew not what step to take next. She snorted lightly, and informed the hungry youth that she would resolve his situation as soon as possible. He did not follow her, as far as she knew, he was still lost; she would find him, again, though.

The young girl had questioned her father of the next step to take, and he had simply given her a loan of his spear. "I expect he's hungry, and most dogs enjoy meat." With a wink of his ever-changing eyes, he left his capable daughter up to her own devices.

So the belle ventured to the Blue, a land that felt winter's touch in temperature but not in snowfall, still near enough to the Dragon's Throat that it felt the hot southerly winds coming off the desert. Her coat was a misty, cloudy grey today, overcast weather did little to help the day warm up. Eyes of crystal clear blue stared ahead, and uneasily she tried to get used to her father's, grandfather's spear in her mouth. No time like the present to practice her weaponry!

The yearling flew low along the beach, knowing that she would not find much along the sandy shoreline. So she angled her path to go over the dunes, seeking out creatures that would burrow into the warm sands to hide for the winter. Sparse bushes provided some cover for the entrance to one such burrow, and Cirrus deftly landed atop the dune, and promptly pounded the earth with her limber legs. Movement was spied, but the animal seemed to be of similar hue to the sand - still, she threw the spear at it, hoping to hear a promising thud of her first kill hitting the earth.

[She's going after a bushrat first :-) ]

Another frown crinkled the brow of the young maiden, though she is pleased that she was at least, able to strike against a target. Swiftly following in the spears wake, she bounds towards it, simultaneously jumping down upon where the bushrat laid and tugging the spear free. A snort wrinkled her lips, she did not like this game, very much, at all. But, she did want to be a warrior, and even though her target at this stage was smaller, and for different reasons than why one fought in wars, she supposed she would just have to get used to it. With an extra kick given on her de[arture of the bushrat’s vicinity to ensure its death, the filly galloped across the sands, rousing more fauna hiding within the bushes. A rabbit, sleepy from its slower winter cycles, emerges, and sits still, attempting to use its camouflage to protect its life. But Cirrus’ keen gaze spies it, and with a powerful wingbeat and leaps to land upon it, thrusting the silver-tipped spear at it just for good measure.

Success was felt, doubly so, and the little flicka could not help but allow her confidence, and ego, to be boosted. With a jubilant cry she pranced on the spot, wondering what she would try to grab next. With a short canter to the top of a dune, she took to the skies again, this time flying over the shallows of the receding ocean. Low tide allowed the shallow waters to be heated, even just minutely, compared to the deeper oceanic waters further away. Shadows of heat-seeking fish could be seen in these shallows, and Cirrus tried to remember what her father had laugh, laughingly, about a time when he and his brother had attempted to catch fish. "The trick is to aim for their shadows - but you have to make sure your own shadow does not scare them away!" The filly had wondered back then what relevance such information would ever be to her; now she knew.

A swoop of her flight scattered the fish, just as she thought it would, though it still caused her some dismay. A large, foot-long fish seemed to separate itself from the school, and she was careful to 'track' its movement. With hope, and perhaps a bit of luck, she threw her spear again, doing as her father said and aiming for its shadow, to try and catch a fishy meal for her canine friend.

"Shit!"
The filly shouted as she watched the spear seemingly whizz across the surface of the shallows. She was afraid then, afraid of losing something she didn't even previously realise was precious to her. Scrambling, with wings and legs essentially flailing after the wooden end that jutted from the ocean, the filly reaches it, and grabs it, after several attempts of doing so. A great amount of thrashing told her that the fish was pierced, but still alive. The pegasus aimed for rocks them, balancing herself upon them with dainty hooves while bashing the end of the spear against it, hoping to stun, and then kill, the slippery meal that was stuck to its point.

Relief from an unexpected worry floods through her as the struggles of the fish still, and the filly drifts upon the wind back towards the shore, where her other kills lie. "Won't be doing that again any time soon..." She muttered, before pawing at the spear tip to drop the fish in the sand. With something akin to regret, she looked at the lives she had taken thus far. A sigh swept away her worries however, as she resolved to complete this task. Looking out over the beach, she picked up the spear again, sweat forming around her wing joints from all the exercise. Determination drove her, more than before now, she scouted with sharp, cerulean eyes, the sandy landscape before her.

A large burrow once again became visible in the side of a dune, and she landed on top of it. It was large enough for a rabbit, or a weasel, or even a badger. Perhaps it hosted a family. The flicka danced atop the dune, causing a lot of sand to cascade through the entrance; she heard telltale scuttles from within that suggested movement. Pleased at the usefulness of the spear, she once again thrust it before her, aiming blindly into the hole, wondering if she would be so lucky to strike something - or at least make something angry enough to come out and show itself to her.

"Shiiiit. Fuck, fuck!"
Curses and other colourful language gurgles from the belle's mouth, words that she had picked up from her father mostly, words that she probably shouldn't know or use, but she knew and used them anyway. Scrambling once more, she momentarily forgot about the spear and focussed upon the badger, whom she had clearly pissed off. It was going for her legs, which was a good and a bad thing. The bad being, it was going for her legs, to try and injure her. The good being that it placed itself in a very vulnerable position, for it gave her far better aim. Instincts screamed at the filly to kick with both her legs, to strike and otherwise pommel this creature that tried to draw her blood. She aimed as best she could for the skull of the badger, knowing that a hard bony plate protected the spine and other sensitive areas of the striped herbivore. Stinging upon her heels told of an injury sustained by herself, but still she fought it, landing from her kick to pivot and strike at it with her forelegs, wings stirring up more sand in attempts to disorient it.

"Fucking hell."
Annoyed at the retreat of her kill, the filly swiftly picks up the spear again, sneezing as a mouthful of sand came with it. Tail lashed at her sides, the dark tips stirring even more sand as it did so. But the grumpy badger was gone, she would have to find something else. The smell of death that permeated from her kills had attracted something else, something far more cunning, and carnivorous than what she had been hunting. The pale figure of a fox looming near her kills saw her react by swiftly flying towards them again, and swooping at it angrily, with hard hooves striking out at it first, then the spear being thrust, but not thrown at it several times. Perhaps this hunter would become hunted, and her next kill.

Fatigue pulls at the filly, but happiness at her success wins out over it as she drags the fox's carcass closer to the growing pile of death. Disgust creases her façade, but the filly has long since gotten over the fact that she must kill in order to win the loyalty of the hellhound. Thoughts drifted to it momentarily, and she hoped that it was still alive, still lingering nearby enough to know when she had killed enough for it. It was surprising to the filly just how much she longed to help it now. It had looked so hopeless and lost behind those gates, and while she had freed it, it was no better off unless she succeeded here, today. The brief rest and further thoughts of determination brought on a renewed focus, and the belle was off again, trotting over the dunes this time, hoping to rouse activity in the sands and make her next target easier to spot.

A sluggish snake slithered across the sand, its reptilian body seeking the warmth of the dunes in the depths of winter, the season making it sleepy, and hopefully an easy target. The python held no venom, and for a moment, Cirrus paused and admired the pattern its scales drew out along its long, sinewy body. Just as swiftly she recovered from her admiration though, and with hard, weather sharpened hooves she struck at the snake once, twice, thrice.