Silver Creek get up, samurai

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stately woodland of cedar, fir, oak and silver maple stretch in myriad of tangy scents that, by some smattering of miracle, compliment one another. the chill that nips at the thick, coarse winter coat that’s grown over the waning months of autumn protects from the worst of the cold, seeps into the marrow of tvarog’s bones; accented by the dusting of fresh, light snow that swirls with the breath of the breeze as it stirs upon the woodland’s mossy floor. though nothing compared to the towering canyon and dry sand underfoot of the badlands, tvarog adjusts to the lush world fairly well, in his opinion. life was certainly easier when prey was in abundance and the bedding was plush as all fuck; and water was readily accessible.

how they all didn’t manage to perish was something still of a fucking miracle ( and thanks to rain gods, if one was to believe in such things ).

he pads along the bank of the readily flowing creek, pausing to deposit his catch — a plump rabbit that was unfortunate enough to cross his path — bow his head and lap eagerly at the cool, crisp freshwater. now that’s the fuckin’ shit. he sighs as if he’s just down the world’s best tequila ( and for what it was worth this water was much better than the sandy shit he was used to drinking ). he noses the still warm prey and without preamble begins to dig in; sharp teeth tearing flesh and cracking bone as he devours his meal.