Bramblepoint these scars long have yearned for your tender caress

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.

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.