Honeyed Pasture the world is already on my side

The joy of hunting alongside an ally — of running full tilt toward the promise of a warm-blooded kill — ah, though Szymon. He could understand now the inland wolves’ love for the sport. “Get it!” laughed the mottled mountain wolf, and Szymon shot him a wickedly roguish grin, tongue lolling joyously from his jaws; the Cairn needed no further invitation. The muscles of his hind legs bunched — he found this packed terrain much more forgiving than the wet sand near the shoreline — and Szymon leapt with vicious accuracy, his jaws flying wide as though they’d come off their hinges. Briefly airborne, he snapped his steel-trap maw closed over a good portion of the fawn’s throat and dropped his weight forcibly, coiling his body into a fetal position so any blows from the ungulate’s hooves would fall upon muscle. It was an undignified shuffle that he found himself in — blood flowed freely from the wound, spattering his face and chest, clouding his vision — but he was immovable.

Snarling with considerable effort as he blinked blood from his eyes, he rode out the fawn’s uneven gait and released his jaws briefly at the crest of motion only to snap shut again on the fawn’s nape, repeating his earlier maneuver at a different vantage point.

This time, he thought, he would successfully bring it down. The muscles of his neck tensed as he threw his weight down and swung his head to the left in an attempt to throw the spotted fawn to the ground. The creature had already lost too much blood and now, slammed to the earth in the throes of Szymon’s grasp, it pedaled jerkily with all four legs — a last involuntary reaction that was merely physical. The soul of his prey had gone. Still, Szymon kept his jaws clamped on the fawn’s neck, remaining in place until all movement stopped. Then, dusty, bloody, and a little bruised from the impact of tiny hooves and the bronco like bucking, he backed away from the kill to let the older wolf have the honor of eating first. Meting out the killing blow satisfied Szymon in a manner that he could not easily process or express — he watched the surrounding area with suspicion, lest the kill be taken from them, and felt…alive. He felt like a war machine. Like a Cairn.