"Mrr," Azzan hummed, looking at the shattered glass in the distance. "If we're hunting in the deep south, I'll need some desert forms. I'll see you in a few hours, love." He broke from the caravan and walked into the sands, his clothes shifting to form prayer strips to Luna. His sword came out of its sheathe slightly and he sliced his palm, smearing the blood on his forehead, cheeks, and lips. The hunt had been called.<br/><br/>((Sacred Hunt on eight-tailed mole hounds, or some other desert predator that would be more appropriate to the area.))