The night is dark around her as she stalks through the forest, eyes flicking here and there as she hunts; food is not as important as it once was, not in the way it might be for others, but if she doesn't feed herself, her magic, then it twists inside of her and becomes something worse, sapping the life out of her body and using it against her. It's better to hunt and eat, even if she has to do it raw, often, than it is to ignore the urges that overcome her.

Her teeth have just snapped around the neck of a hare when she feels the pulse of shard magic, her head lifting as she lowers her ears. It's not Iorveth, that she can tell, and she takes a few cautious steps backwards as she regards him. If he approaches she might well have to turn back to herself - already she can feel the exhaustion coiling around her - but she has the upper hand like this, freer and with no consequences for attacking other people.

Who can blame a wolf for instinct, after all?