Silverlight Terrace like winter we are cruel

@Hydra

blood soaks the snow in swaths of glistening crimson.

it is still falling, not hard; a gentle dusting of flakes in the gathering darkness, so that the little light there is to see by Is further veiled in grey. against the ground the doe still struggles weakly where she has fallen, the snow so dark around her it is almost black, her belly yawning open like a hungry mouth, limp, coiled ropes of intestine dangling from the gaping wound.

her head has long since fallen back, neck stretched in a graceful arc at odds with the awkward angles of her legs, the broken bone gleaming in the light. even when caw draws close she can only kick weakly in reply; when he lowers his head, lips already rimed with blood, and sinks his teeth into the meat of her ribcage she makes a faint, desperate noise that dies immediately in the wind, the halting movements of her chest speeding only briefly back up.

in the empty quiet of the snow-strewn field, the sound of tearing muscle and skin might as well be a wolf’s howl. if anyone is to come, though, caw welcomes them.

behind him, there is the rustle of wings.

caw’s ears flick back, but he remains unmoving, swallowing down mouthfuls of fur and flesh, trailing ribbons of skin and meat from his teeth. when the crow lands beside him, he gives it a quick sideways glance and shifts a fraction, allowing the bird to move forward and strip her own meal from the dying animal.

“good evening,” caw says cheerfully, mouth half-full. blood drips from his lips and into the snow already saturated with red, soaks into the pale fur of his forepaws, lukewarm against his skin.

avis brushes a wing against his side as she settles down to eat. for a moment caw lets the silence stretch, and in it, the doe gives a too-heavy exhale. his ears twitch forward, blood-bright eyes settling on her ribcage – watching, rapt, as the breath leaves her, and her body stills.

Moonspear afforded the perfect views of the valley, though Hydra had left it for some brief reprieve. Hydra knew that soon enough she would need to remain, once her mother again bore her latest litter. Hydra hoped that at least one of them would prove to be useful, good, and strong. Jarilo seemed that way; Hydra supposed she ought to consider making him her fully-fledged apprentice. She had been busy, lately, with the turmoil life had thrown her way. She decided swiftly that her trade would be the best distraction and, with it, becoming the strongest, fiercest she-wolf the Valley might ever know. 

It was a lofty goal, but thus far in her life Hydra had achieved everything she set her mind to. And her mind was set. 

So she moved to return home, relatively at peace. Her jaunt outside had been short but worthwhile. The smell of blood was detected, though she was not given pause as she moved forward. This was no man's land, after all, and she knew very well how to hold her own. In any case, she was not interested in the meal of a stranger; Hydra was a pack-wolf, and she never needed to question when her next meal was. Even when a hunt was not successful, another would be—she had never struggled with sustenance, that was for certain. 

And so as she broke through the woods and noted a sizable man there, eating, Hydra spared him but a glance and a brief nod as she continued onward. Hydra certainly did not like to be interrupted during her meal, and by the looks of the man she had seen (brief though it was) she felt he might very well echo the sentiment. Still, as she moved on, her attention remained upon him, all senses engaged; she was no fool and knew of the dangers in the wild. Such a thing she wore on her sleeve, every step in her confident stride somehow implying a violent consequence if bothered.

there is a particular silence that lingers after death, deeper than any other quiet. there is blood on his teeth and his lips as he stands there, driving the hunger in the pit of his stomach, but caw has ignored louder before. he breathes in the thick smells of organs and copper that stick like a half-chewed meal in the back of his throat, and for a moment he stands there, looking every bit like the crow he is named after.
 
it is not until he hears the crunch of paws on the snow that he moves. even then, at first, it is not much; a curious twist of his ears that only becomes his whole body when avis lets out a sharp, rattling caw. in the pale light, his eyes gleam like raw blood, settling on the sleek black figure trotting past; he lifts his head when he sees her, tail curving thoughtfully up towards his back, feathers threaded into the nape of his neck on full display.
 
he waits, eagerly, for her to turn, to notice the doe, to move towards him in challenge. but when she does glance his way, her eyes the deep blue of early morning, she gives him only a brief nod, does not even pause in her steps as she continues moving past and further afield.
 
caw blinks, briefly lost. what right does she have to ignore him?
 
the thought pricks indignantly at him, and he prowls forward and through the doe’s ruined ribcage, the tangle of organs and blood and rapidly-cooling meat. his teeth are sheathed neatly behind his lips but he makes no effort to hide his naturally-predatory stalk, nor the curious flick of his ears, the upraised curl of his tail.
 
“hello,” caw says brightly as he nears her. his steps slow, but his stare is unwavering, the thrill of a potential fight growing in his blood. it has been too long since he has had a challenge; and for someone, a woman, to step past so casually, to dismiss him, would perhaps make him angry, if he was one to feel such things.
 
as it is, it excites him. for a moment, the constant overbearing calm gives way to prickling interest. he will not let her simply walk past.