The pack circled around it’s prey. The hunter perched above, waiting.
The pack was small, only four in number, but the pack members more than made up for it in size. Each beast was larger than the tallest of ponies, bodies heavy with fibrous muscle and a thick coating of bark in place of fur made them appear even larger. Their yellow eyes, aglow in the darkness of the forest at night, were like spotlights, each locked onto the prey. Two members of the pack circled around the prey, moving in opposite directions, while the other two waited off to the sides in case it should slip between them.
This was unlikely to happen, as the prey in this case was the butchered remains of a manticore, stripped of anything of value, leaving only the meat. But while the timberwolves were not above stealing another hunters kill, rarely did they come across a corpse with no predator nearby. The scent of blood and food crushed all others, and the wolves possessed enough low cunning to know something was not as it should be.
It took some time, but the smallest of the pack eventually moved forward and tasted some of the meat. Finding nothing amiss, it began to eat in earnest, managing to snatch a few mouthfuls before a larger wolf shoved it to the side, taking it’s place.
The pack feasted greedily, each eating their fill and more. They did not see the branches above them shift in a wind that wasn’t there. They did not hear them creak and bend. Did not smell the pony standing on them.
A stallion the colour of dirt and leaves looked down at the pack. Getting into the tree had been an almost impossible endeavour reduced to merely difficult by his use of hoof spikes. He shifted slightly, then paused when one of the wolves raised it’s massive head, sniffing at the air. He held his breath as it glanced around, only releasing it when it returned to it’s meal.
Taking a few deep breaths, he readied himself for what might be the stupidest thing he’d ever done. Locking his gaze on the nearest - and largest - timberwolf directly below him, he stepped from the branch.
There was only one way to really kill timberwolves, and that was suddenly and violently. The fall took a few seconds, which Big Game felt was both too long and not long enough. He landed on the timberwolves back with a thunderous crack, hoof spikes piercing the thick bark of the beast, one in the skull, another at the base of the neck, as he’d been taught. The thing seemed to disintegrate under him, collapsing to the ground, though it still slowed his fall a great deal.
The other wolves retreated from the sudden attack. Big Game pressed his advantage. As soon as he landed, he rolled to one side and launched a jab at the nearest wolf, taking it in the throat, putting it out of the fight until it reformed or he killed it. Just to be safe, he tackled it, sending it tumbling away from him, then he turned on the other two wolves. They looked at the pony attacking them and moved, each going to a different side of the stallion.
Big Game took one, tiny step to the side with the smallest wolf, then dropped to the ground just in time for it to go flying over his head. He rolled in the other direction and leapt upwards, slamming his shoulders and head into the second wolf’s underside as it leapt at him as well. The force of the blow, along with the wolves momentum , caused it to overshoot and crash into a tree where it dropped to the ground, stunned.
This left the smallest wolf the only one moving, for the moment. He had to work fast, before the other two got back to their paws. He didn’t have to worry about the one he landed on. It was dead, a pile of twigs, vines and sap nopony would recognise as a wolf.
Big Game took off at a run, ignoring the pain in his skull and shoulders, weaving between trees. It was only a second before he heard the wolf following behind him. He led the wolf away from the others, buying himself time before they could gang up on him. He led it along a marked path, the notches in trees pointing the way for him. Eventually, he saw the mark he had been looking for ahead; an arrow pointing straight upwards. He leapt towards the tree, then ran around it. Behind him, he heard the wolf’s surprised howls. Rounding the tree, he saw a wolf, hanging maybe a foreleg above the ground. Lowering his head, he charged towards it. At the last second he planted one forehoof, spun so he was facing away from the wolf, then planted the other. Taking aim even as he spun, he launched a powerful two hoof kick at the wolf with his hind legs, shattering the beasts skull. Whatever magic held it together evaporated as soon as the head was gone, and the timberwolf dissolved into a mass of twigs on the ground. He kicked them apart just to be safe.
He paused, taking a moment to catch his breath and listening. Timberwolves didn’t howl, they didn’t have vocal cords, but the silence in the forest told him they were still nearby. Good. Two down, two to go.
He made his way slowly back to where the remaining to timberwolves should be, keeping his ears up and eyes open. The stallion moved with a nervous energy, eyes rolling, ears flicking every which way. It wasn’t enough.
Big Game had less than a seconds warning - a twig snapped behind him - and something was on his back, pulling him down. He felt the timberwolves tense and jerked his head to the side. He could feel the beast’s hot breath on the side of his face as it took off a chunk of his ear. He let out a high pitched neigh and thrashed side to side. He managed to get his hooves under the wolf and shove it away long enough to roll to his hooves. Pain radiated from his ear, a white hot fire burning across the side of his head. Every twitch of his ear sent a lance of pain through him, every sound another needle piercing his skull. He could feel where bruises would form, along his shoulders and back where he had struck and been struck by the beasts. He stepped to the side. The wolf did the same.
The hunters circled each other, wary and weakened.
The second timberwolf gave no warning. Only instinct, made by training and strengthened by battle, saved him. Something screamed at him to move, and he followed it with the ease of one used to following orders. Big Game dropped to the ground, landing hard, the impact forcing his breath from his lungs. Another bruise, most likely. He jumped back to his hooves, wincing as pain lanced through his chest where he’d landed on a rock.
The two wolves were in front of him now, thorn-like teeth bared. They started to separate, moving to flank him. He couldn’t let them do that. He broke into a sprint from a standing start, and like most predators do, the wolves backed away from a sudden charge. He aimed for the larger wolf. Crossing the short distance between them in seconds, he struck the wolf with his shoulder and both of them fell in a tangle of limbs. Before the wolf could react, Big Game had his teeth around its throat. It took a second, but the bark cracked as he bit through it, and he heard as well as felt the vines that made up its neck snap as he pulled back. He left the wolf on the ground, unable to breath.
It had taken only a second for the stallion to get his hooves under him, but that was a second too long. The smaller wolf was on top of him, the beasts greater weight pinning him. The stallion lashed out with his hooves and made contact once, twice, but then something was holding his leg. There was a cracking sound that disappeared under the sudden rush of pain. His vision went white and he screamed, high and loud. He could feel something warm running down his left foreleg. Thrashing side to side like a madpony, he heard the wolf let out a pained growl. Anger briefly overshadowing pain, he struck that spot again and again and again until, finally, the bark cracked and he struck the vines that made up the beats innards.
The wolf leapt off him, whining in pain, and fled into the forest. Slowly, Big Game got to his hooves and made his way over to the wolf whose throat he’d torn out. It was starting to heal already, vines and bark regrowing before his eyes so quickly he could almost hear it. It looked up at him, yellow eyes empty of emotion. He brought his right forehoof down twice, two measured beats. It’s skull cracked, and it collapsed into a pile of twigs and sap.
Turning, Big Game limped towards his camp.
At his camp, he cleaned the wound as best he could, knowing he should be relieved his bone had only cracked a little, but wasn’t able to make himself anything other than annoyed.
If he’d had a tail weight, he could have wrapped his tail around one of the wolves legs and pulled it off him. But he hadn’t thought to bring one with him to the forest.
If he’d reacted faster, he could have moved before it pinned him. But he’d grown slow, focussing on strength over speed, forgetting his training.
If he’d been smarter, he could have found a better way than just charging straight in. That was the sort of thing that got a pony killed.
If he’d just been better, he wouldn’t have been alone out here.