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Bollox.

Just like a fuckin' haunted ass fuckin' world to have a haunted ass fuckin' moon right when she wanted to make a go of stealing some shinies from these caravaners!

The weather was all wrong, she knew the sky and how one cloud or gust of wind might lead to another. These made no sense. Where she'd been right to anticipate fog, she'd expected an oncoming storm to follow. Not... this bullshittery. The fog stayed, oppressive and red. The moon stayed, fighting with the sun for dominance. Bleeding. She looked up now and then and expected to see a gaggle of bloody ghouls running merry through the sky in silhouette!

The ghost voice that spoke in dreams could say what it liked about deadly Blue and foreign threats. She didn't care. She hadn't signed on for this bullshit.

And the moon couldn't be red everywhere, right? Best to get out of this cursed place, and quickly.

She just wasn't willing to leave without something for the trouble. If these fools wouldn't flee an obvious omen, she saw no reason they should have any claim to their valuables.

This wasn't the storm she'd hoped for, but it would do.

And she knew her trade.

The Cur and Mal had crept to the border of the neighboring pack and found a fresh scent-post to roll in. (Stinky shite, what did these lummoxes eat?) To the wind, and any noses turned toward it, they'd smell thoroughly of Jakten tonight. A useful disguise, with the scapegoat so close at hand.

Even better, they'd both caught a wiff on the humid air — somewhere past the markers was a lady in heat. No doubt the wretch made deals with devils, the Cur thought! Her children would be cursed things, if she conceived. But it made a useful distraction from any outside meddlers. Dark eyes of an otherworldly nature would watch elsewhere. As long as Mal didn't get distracted, and go hunting for a different kind of prize tonight, himself... She growled at him in warning.

It was a straightforward plan. And in thick dark fog so oppressive you could easily mistake a body for a bush, thieves would have ample cover.

The pair had spied long enough to be sure there were two kinds of valuables in the camp. Baubles, kept in bundles... and pompous peacock wolves who walked like they owned the damn sky and never went anywhere without guards. A threat to them would be answered swiftly and without mercy. A ransom would pay handsome, but she didn't have the numbers for a kidnapping, just a boyish rogue who chewed on sticks. So baubles it would be.

But the prey didn't need to know that.

Mal was to crouch in shadowed underbrush on the side of camp closest to their king or emperor or whatever-the-fuck he was. She would skirt the guards and find the goods elsewhere, and when the time was right, Mal would cause a ruckus worthy of distraction to make clean their getaway. The pompous fools would, she hoped, flock to protect their leader. By the time they realized they'd been robbed, the thieves would have distance, and the scent of Jakten left behind would turn eyes and teeth in the opposite direction.

Sight, scent, surprise, scapegoat.

Everything she needed, as far as she was concerned.

She stalked the grey landscape, crouching from bush to bramble between pauses where eyes and ears kept sharp for any sign of unwelcome approach.