Tormented Tarns cool enough

There were six wild turkeys. It was too dark to discern any details, so he flung himself at the nearest. As his teeth clipped it somewhere between its throat and breast, the flock began to raise a raucous fuss. He closed his eyes as beaks, wings, claws and all manner of weaponry was turned upon him. The wolf then applied a brutal amount of pressure, crushing flesh and bone with his jaws before leaping clear.

Bleeding from several dozen superficial cuts, the panting hunter located his chaperon and loped over to her to catch his breath. He didn't look at her right away. Anywhere he moved, his coal eyes remained focused on the slain turkey as it slumped in the field, bleeding out in the darkness. In a moment's time, he would run back in there and chase the five remaining birds away from his kill and collect his prize.

In the meantime, his dark gaze finally flicked sideways to the white she-wolf. "It's all yours when I go in and grab it," he said to her. "And I just realized we never even exchanged names," he mused between pants. "You can call me Wick." That wasn't his name—it wasn't even his full nickname—but maybe he would provide more details once he was accepted and began to make something of himself in her ranks.