[align=center][div style="max-width: 600px; text-align: justify; font-family: georgia; font-size: 10pt;"][color=black]Like a shark, Melantha is drawn to the scent of blood. It is nearly impossible to resist the urge to investigate; every predatory instinct within her slight frame compels her to track down the source of the decadent fragrance. Powerful muscles tense, flexing as the elegant predator rises to her paws before nimbly leaping from the roof upon which she enjoyed lounging upon. Weathered wood groans in protest beneath her weight, and seems to sigh in relief as calloused paws touch down upon the gravel below. Melantha pauses, angular skull shifting as she breathes in the air. Parting her deadly jaws, the wildcat tastes the air, using the olfactory sensors on the roof of her mouth to better pinpoint the origin of the sense-datum. South. No, southeast. Mel launches into action.
Although plain compared to some of the more extravagant residents of Snowbound, Mel can be considered beautiful in her own, normal way. At the very least, it is clear that she takes care of herself from the healthy sheen of her coat and those bright olive eyes which are sensitive to even the slightest of details. Lithe muscles ripple beneath a pelt of spun gold, shining like a sea of wheat swaying beneath the golden eye of the sun. In a matter of seconds, the solitary predator accelerates from a standstill to breakneck speed, nimbly navigating a natural obstacle course of lichen-covered boulders jutting from the earth and a growing abundance of foliage the further south she traveled. Melantha cannot talk to people. She struggles to relate to others and make connections. But she can hunt, and she knows these lands like the back of her own paw. If nothing else, she can exceed in this area.
Her muscles burn from the exertion, lungs straining to compensate for the extra oxygen used from all the sprinting. Her body wants to stop, to slow down, but Melantha knows she is close. She can smell it. The blood. The deep, metallic stench of crimson permeating the air. It awakens her senses, makes her feel alive. But Mel ignores the primal urges, instead focusing on slowing her pace and paying closer attention to her surroundings. Dim sunlight streams through the emerald needles of the evergreens, decorating the forest floor below in oddly-shaped slats of light. Nightfall approaches fast. As the young huntress begins to investigate, she is made aware of a familiar scent. One she has not detected in a considerable amount of time. "Killua?" whispers the wildcat into the rapidly growing darkness, slinking cautiously through the trees. Copper and iron fill the air, nearly making it hard to breathe. He must be injured. She needs to hurry.
Melantha's fears are recognized when she leaps atop a boulder, immediately laying eyes upon the serval's broken figure. "Shit," she curses, quickly making her way over to him. "Killua, hey, can you hear me?" The mountain lioness crouches beside her friend(?), resisting the urge to touch him for fear of startling the male and feeling the clod bite of his metal claws raking across her face. She distinctly remembers the last time she found him in a state like this--he was in a daze and unresponsive although he was conscious. And then he lashed out at her. She is hesitant to make the same mistake again.
Although plain compared to some of the more extravagant residents of Snowbound, Mel can be considered beautiful in her own, normal way. At the very least, it is clear that she takes care of herself from the healthy sheen of her coat and those bright olive eyes which are sensitive to even the slightest of details. Lithe muscles ripple beneath a pelt of spun gold, shining like a sea of wheat swaying beneath the golden eye of the sun. In a matter of seconds, the solitary predator accelerates from a standstill to breakneck speed, nimbly navigating a natural obstacle course of lichen-covered boulders jutting from the earth and a growing abundance of foliage the further south she traveled. Melantha cannot talk to people. She struggles to relate to others and make connections. But she can hunt, and she knows these lands like the back of her own paw. If nothing else, she can exceed in this area.
Her muscles burn from the exertion, lungs straining to compensate for the extra oxygen used from all the sprinting. Her body wants to stop, to slow down, but Melantha knows she is close. She can smell it. The blood. The deep, metallic stench of crimson permeating the air. It awakens her senses, makes her feel alive. But Mel ignores the primal urges, instead focusing on slowing her pace and paying closer attention to her surroundings. Dim sunlight streams through the emerald needles of the evergreens, decorating the forest floor below in oddly-shaped slats of light. Nightfall approaches fast. As the young huntress begins to investigate, she is made aware of a familiar scent. One she has not detected in a considerable amount of time. "Killua?" whispers the wildcat into the rapidly growing darkness, slinking cautiously through the trees. Copper and iron fill the air, nearly making it hard to breathe. He must be injured. She needs to hurry.
Melantha's fears are recognized when she leaps atop a boulder, immediately laying eyes upon the serval's broken figure. "Shit," she curses, quickly making her way over to him. "Killua, hey, can you hear me?" The mountain lioness crouches beside her friend(?), resisting the urge to touch him for fear of startling the male and feeling the clod bite of his metal claws raking across her face. She distinctly remembers the last time she found him in a state like this--he was in a daze and unresponsive although he was conscious. And then he lashed out at her. She is hesitant to make the same mistake again.