Otter Creek Blame it on my own sick pride

@Astrid

Sound of crushing bone echoed in the silence of the creek. Long ago the birds fled, leaving the beast alone with his prey while dug into their entrails. Otter Creek was full of easy prey, the otters were comfortable in these lands and wandered too far from shore - leaving themselves vulnerable for the earthen brute to grab hold of a few and create a sort of buffet for himself. 

Their smaller teeth left barely a mark as they failed to find flesh under the thick dirtied pelt, some scratches and bites on his legs showed proof of their attempt at defending themselves, but all for a futile try. 

With a muzzle sticky of blood, the pink muscle within the moist cavern of a mouth slid across to clean himself of most - lifting his head from the small pile of corpses to cast a gaze. Ears attentive to his surroundings - the brute was aware of the pack near by, neighbouring the creek. Their borders were all too clear when he initially saw it, marked in gore rather than just piss, it was hard to miss. Even if he did not fear their presence, to leave himself open for an ambush was a move stupid enough for a whelp to make.

Tearing ribs open, using his own weight to keep the corpse on the ground and leveraging the cage with a grip tightly held b his jaws, he continued to ravage the prey. If most wolves were like that woman on the stony hills, they too might come to protect lands they did not mark.