The roar gives them away. They're above it. They're leaping. They're moving forward.

The deer-thing stops and ducks, waiting for the wolf to sail over it, but it's a bit late--the force of them catches on the tips of its antlers (cursed things are curved forwards, they don't even get scratches) and their head is jerked down with painful force. How dare they.

It listens to the sound of them hitting the ground, on their torso or their paws. Either way, it darts off again, headed for a barely-there path through the choked blaze. Come on.