Greatwater Lake burned but not buried this time

she had gone south. she knew the boy (@Dagur) followed, if not for his scent then for the constant feeling of eyes upon her, or the scurrying of paws against the terrain. he was often out of her line of sight which irked her; but that saved him, too, as she could not reach out and clutch an ear or worry at his haunch, or whatever bullying felt right at the time.

together but apart, they came to a waterway. the lake spanned far and the edge was iced, however zharille had learned by now to avoid those patches, so she kept to the land and prowled the soggy basin where lake met river. there were many splintered veins of water here, much bird scent, and from time to time she thought she found others: rats, voles, small things hidden for the winter.

She gave him food.

Now she led him to water.

Dagur's brain flared with this new survival streak he had found in her. Still he tried to remember to remain out of reach. The harshness of bullying was a lesson he had learned with The Big Man. Now he had learned it again with her.

Yet still, if he wished to keep living, he could not always exist as a shadow. Stupidly he skirted closer on her trail along the waterways.

Guard down, he moved to lap at the water frantically.

the sound of tongue hitting water made her stop and stare.

a low sound came from her, almost too quiet to reach him. there was annoyance there; his noise! his noise would drive away what she sought. had he no sense? but he thirsted in the same desperate way he had hungered and zharille knew that feeling.

she chose to go quiet and let him have his moment.

her prowling took her farther — and maybe she would lose him as she hunted.

He was grateful to not feel teeth on his lips again, or his ear.

Yet he noticed she moved away.

No! He could not be left behind or forgotten. Quickly he licked his lips, feeling the soft tug of the mark she had left on him. It was worth it, that much he understood.

He hunched and began to prowl after her.

with the two wolves now stalking the murk of this land, the slumbering lesser creatures would soon be alerted to them. zharille with her heavy-handedness, dagur with his frenzied following.

something did rouse between the two of them: a rat of some variety, fat and sleepy, and panicked. it scurried through the underbrush away from one large threat and in to the waiting path of the other; crossing before dagur without any thoughts in its empty little head.

zharille heard the movement but it was dwindling in her ears, so she ignored it and pressed forward.

Fat and sleepy was good for the boy.

Especially when it scurried along his path as blind as a bat or as clueless as a worm. There could be no time to waste! He pounced, slapped paws on either side. Teeth came down with a crunch.

His eyes widened and he clutched the rat head-first in his mouth, letting it hang there for a moment.

Perhaps he was supposed to share, yet he felt unable to.

there was commotion enough to rouse zharille from her stalking. she turned to regard the boy as if he'd done some great and terrible thing, and saw the rat hanging from his teeth. it was a good kill; it was not enough food for herself, though, so she did not contest him for it.

a snort was all she issued as praise, and the idle flick of her tail-tip. it was the bare minimum effort and got the bare minimum response. perhaps now that he had his own meat, he would be bearable company.

she set her sights on a game trail leading towards the water: it smelled of river otter, and was very strong, and so it was fresh. a few deep whuffs of this and zharille had forgotten the rat - she was in pursuit of something long and lean.

She offered praise in a small way. He devoured it almost like he did the rat.

Fresher than the goat had been. Hot still! Without a contender for it, he could devour. Even when his gut might have clenched or squirmed with the sudden influx of food. Two meals so close together felt extremely rare.

Soon he would have to catch back up with her.

For now he watched her from a distance while he further crunched the fat rat.

the family of otters had likely heard her coming, or smelled her, and she was large enough to be bear-like and menacing, so that might've done it too. there had been four or five of them scurrying off in to the wilderness; a young one went the wrong way towards the water, and zharille caught sight of it first.

she picked up her pace to a heavy canter, lunging for the creature as it bobbed in the water. she missed, but the threat to the young one brought the rage of two adults! they screeched and came for her out of the sedge, and she wheeled about snapping at them.

quick as they were, zharille could be quick too when she employed all her strength.

when she turned to look for the boy with his rat, she held the broken body of one otter like a red thread trailing to the dirt.

He realized he wished to be her.

The great strength she held as a hunter. The otter from her jaws was a grand feat, in his eyes. Perhaps in all eyes. She became something like an idol to him in those moments.

He squirmed some in his spot beyond, dared to edge a bit closer to her.

Submission and admiration crooned in his throat.

the boy was marked by rat blood.

he crawled closer and begged, pathetic.

zharille grimaced around her kill and loosed a prominent, guttural sound to warn him away from it. he'd eaten; this was her own! if he wanted more he should have done better.

she swung away after that to drop the otter carcass against the dirt and straddle it possessively, head lowered over it and shoulders bunched, prickling. would he try to take it anyway? how desperate was this child?

He felt shunned.

It was a feeling that burned sour in his throat with the remains of rat. It would be childish to throw a tantrum, to demand attention while she feasted on an otter. Yet he stood, silent but prickled.

Watching and waiting.

For what? He did not know.

it did not take long for the body of the otter to be stripped apart. blood streaked the buff tones of her face, lined her gums and stained her teeth. the snow beneath her paws became a mess of fluids as everything melted, and a steam rose from the heart of the creature as she tore through it.

more would be necessary for someone of her size. zharille knew this; she knew she was always near-starving these days, and that she would need to rely on others, or on carrion, to make it through this winter. perhaps that was why she let the boy linger despite his presence wearing thin her naturally low patience.

perhaps also, this was why she only ate the head and heart, and gave the boy a brief flash of her eyes as she abandoned the rest.

Why?

He could not look this gift horse in the mouth. Not when she gave him that look and left perfectly good meat (for a boy of his currently hurting size) upon the meal.

Her shadow, her scavenger.

Yet he understood their balance and that she may, at any point, drive him off.

For now, it was a good enough life.