Duck Lake a queen i am, but my throne is made of burned bones

The man stepped away from Rosings without feeling his gut drop. It had been one of his first times since he had overthrown their leader. With the prey having found its way back into the land, and the pack’s recent hunt through their woods, he was growing back into the mountain of a creature he had once been. Though the fur along his neck and spine was still ragged and wispy, and there was a certain serpentine build to his ghostly body, the muscles beneath his coat were taut once more and needed to be worked. So it was a steady lope that lead him across the stretch of terrain and in the direction of the lake. The water, he knew, would be a refreshing change from the thick tangle of trees and foliage of Rosings.
 
Once there, the brute caught sight of a few ducks that splashed about in the water. He drew his tongue across his grizzled muzzle and narrowed his brows on their figures. The ghost had never been proficient at catching birds to eat, but it had been some time since he’d tried them and knew the ducks to be delicious meals. Though momentarily distracted by the birds, the brute does catch sight of an inky figure who seemed to have the same intention. Instead of taking the opportunity himself, the pale man watched from where he stood on the shore.