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Winter was no friend of the lonely traveler. She was a bitter and caustic lover; grating and unsavory; a saboteur of safe travels and general well-being...
But it was his favorite season— the season of Death.
His blood pumped faster. His limbs churned harder. He did not balk from work, but rather prevailed in it; always hunting for what was trying and yearning for all things he was hard-pressed to take. It was the time of the unfortunate, his time, and the dreary white, so soft and pristine, presented to him the sorts of things he preferred. Like challenges, and easy pickings: trapped victims and morose survivors on their last leg of hope.
All the uncertainty and stretches of time where he went unfed were things that invigorated the unconstrained predator to be his most natural self— an unyielding savage, teasing Hell with a soul he was not yet ready to relinquish; dissatisfied with his mortal coil, yet finding ecstasy in every moment he spent near the brink of it.
Even now he was thin, thinner than he could have liked, even though the red staining his pale mouth said that he had recently fed. But it had not been recently enough, as his eyes, squinted against the rising sun, shouted that he was still hungry.
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She’d set out the evening before when she noticed her stash had been low, spending the rest of the night when she’d got to the glen. Her sleep had been plenty and she woke up a little dizzy and disoriented, as much times, but her mind still yearns for the cause. She stretches out her legs and slowly picks herself up, ingesting a few of the seed pods around her and snagging a few from the ground for later to head back home. Traveling through the forest that separates the caldera and the glen is always her favorite. Even in the winter, with the promise of spring on her heels, it always has a sweet smell. The dormant bushes and trees filled with fruit leaves a linger scent through summer that no amount of snow will diminish.
The scent of another takes precedent and stops her in her tracks. Her jaws tighten around the stems she holds in her mouth, uncertain of the location. Her hazy mind keeps her from finding a pinpoint location of the other and she slows her stagger down to a snail’s pace. West closes her eyes to collect herself, turning a corner of the forest to find the sight of another up ahead. The stale scent of blood fills her nose above the aroma around her and she nearly stumbles forward on weak limbs, causing more of a ruckus than she’d cared for. Her ears droop down but she does not speak, hesitantly waiting in place.
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It was the noise that first drew his attention— the begrudging crunch of snow beneath a weight it was not yet acclimated to wielding— and with open predation, his body stiffened, arcing towards the sound with the intent to obtain it.
As the other wolf melted into view, however, the plight that was his gnawing hunger became stale on his tongue, and he had to stretch his jaws in a wide yawn so that he might take himself out of the killing mood. His silent stalk turned into a hard saunter; no longer seeing the presumably healthy she-wolf as edible, though the slightly uncoordinated sway of her languid steps seemed to force his curiosity into high gear anyway. His eyes scanned and his nostrils flared, trying to pick up on some obscure injury, but the only thing he could detect was the cold aroma of long-dead fruit— an impression left by the types of trees that grew here and bloomed juicily in the warmer months.
Without the hesitation of a cautious animal, he came near enough to be heard, while maintaining enough of a distance to provide her with the illusion of safety. His ears pressed forward, compensating for the soft dip of her own and silently (unintentionally) presenting himself as the more violent-prone of the two of them. His eyes, just as interested, unabashedly searched the feminine contours of her face.
Spying the winter-weathered stems she holds in her teeth, Grievous tries something neutral— hoping to lure her in; reminding himself that willing prey was always much easier to catch. Plants?
he snakes mildly, his voice low and raspy from misuse. Inviting; if one were prone to such dangerous whims. Are they filling? I'm terribly hungry.
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Semira lazily opened her soft Amber eyes as she awoke from her light nap. The remains of a carcass lay beside her lithe form. Her mind wanders to the chase hours before. Fun. The simple word reasonated through her brain as she ran her tongue across the dried blood on her maw.
The wolf slowly lifted her bulk up off of the soft moss. She arched her spine, stretching her weathered paws out in front of her. She glanced over to the remains of her kill. A waste. She sighs, silently slipping forwards out of the she had lain within.
She softly padded through the fresh powder, lifting her snout to breathe in the gentle breeze. Other wolves? She chuffs and shakes her large cranium, scenting the wind again. Definently. She follows the scents apprehensively, her amber optics searching the land for her kind. So lonely. Her mind whispers. After all this time, perhaps my own voice will seem unrecognizanble to me. She shivers, but not with the winter breeze that shifts through her red creamy pelt. Her stride pauses. Stop hesitating! She corrects herself, heading onwards towards the others.
The moment he locks onto her is instant and she can feel it to her core. Her ears droop back and she doesn’t allow herself to move except the slight in and exhale. He crosses the distance between them like a force of nature she’s never seen and she worries she needs to brace herself for impact. The grip on her flower stems loosen and it doesn’t register at first he’s asked about them, dropping them from her mouth and opening her jaws to speak. Nothing remains in her control and she isn’t even sure how she’s operating.
“They will not fill the hole in your stomach,” she tells him smoothly, “but they could of your soul.”
Her mouth snaps back together at the sound of another and she freezes, swiveling one ear backward, followed by a deadly glare over her shoulder.