Fox's Glade a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr

For the first time inquire some time Wardruna’s hunts — not one but both of them! — had been successful. He’d taken his first fresh kill to @Noma and in rare and high spirits Wardruna told her she could choose whether she wanted to remain in Easthollow’s territory or whether she wanted to follow him into the neighboring glade while he tracks a herd he’s scented there the other day but had not investigated. The second kill he’d had good intentions of sending to the caches to replenish what Noma and him have eaten but in the end only a hindquarter ended up in the cache. The lure of fresh, warm and succulent meat had been to much of a temptation for the northerner and he wanted to taste the victory of an non-botched hunt achieved by his own self on his tongue. Victory, as it turned out, had a very sweet taste. Wardruna’d forgotten what it had tasted like: how the rise of his mood and confidence brought with it a sense of euphoria.

He slips out of Easthollow’s borders and pads along in an easy gait, the snow crunching beneath his paws as he moves, head bowed towards the ground every few meters to sniff at the earth. He catches sight of a tuft of fawn colored fur caught on one of the sparse spruces that inhabit the glade out of the corner of his right eye and veers off to investigate it. He draws in the scent and feels the trickle of anticipation as he realizes that it’s fresh. Much fresher than the day old scent trail he’d been following. Wardruna pursues the fresher of the scent trails, assuming that this lone deer will, ultimately, lead him to the herd.