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They were wolves. Wolves were meant to hunt. Not the ravenous way hypocritical ranchers accused, to justify killing a free thing. But in the order of things, balance between beast clans, waya had a role. Prey that was sickly or frail were prime targets, to keep sick from spreading, to keep suffering from drawing out.

And yet Mythris had, until recently, been rather determined to stamp out wolven race no matter the cost. Even at the expense of the elk, and the chickadee, and the tortoise, and the frog. In some ways, life was restored. In others, it was still mending. Lives were always precious... wastefulness was the flaw of the arrogant, regardless of what skin they wore.

So Nate rather felt like being a wolf, and being a man with the power to remember histories, were at odds, here.

A wolf should cull this fawn, trapped in the washout. It couldn't run, couldn't work its way up the eroded bank. He'd been watching. Seen the mother hovering. Listened to the bleating.

Easy prey.

But the fact there was a fawn at all, when winter had persisted so fiercely, sort of made him reluctant.

He hovered just far enough away to not chase the doe off entirely (or inspire her to charge him, which felt like a stupid way to get hurt after everything that had come recently before it.) From there, gauged his chances of being able to boost the little fella out of his predicament without getting beat to a pulp for the trouble.