Little Goat Mountain Are we faded

Rambling post is rambling.

He did not spend much time eating—too much on the belly and he would be bloated, too lazy to move on. Not that he intended to leave this cleft very soon. Warbone meant to spend time with this carcass. But he had learned from past mistakes, and he would not overindulge. While he ate, his eyes darted in every direction, a habit now for the solitary wolf and it was by small coincidence that he happened to scan the ridges above.

When their eyes met, there was the barest of pauses on his end (so quick, it almost didn't happen) before he resumed his own personal contest of speed eating. He didn't look away for a long moment—watching the small, striking swathe of red fur against the cold, drab backdrop with what could be perceived as a very mild interest. He looked elsewhere, eyes darting suspiciously once more. His bites were massive and quick, but ultimately few, and after one final gulp of tender belly meat, he relieved himself of his devouring crouch and gave his entire body a good shake. Flecks of gory bits expelled, he then angled his body towards the wolf perched above him, looking to see if she remained.

Even at this distance he could tell she was small, and despite what his volatile behavior might suggest, Warbone was an incredibly rational creature. If she was hungry, he would allow her to eat, as displayed by the way he obviously swung his muzzle towards the prone kill in a pointed fashion and then back to her. He gave a curt nod—an affirmation of his offer, should she take it—and then he began to lope the slender perimeter of the cleft, sniffing about, checking to see what else besides goats frequented this quaint knoll caught between cliffs.

She wouldn't take much, he thought, and if she wasn't alone, Warbone had no qualms with battling multiple wolves. He would deal with what came, as it did.