Flycatcher Downs the wolf shook his coat and it snowed for days

The goodwill of his kin was perhaps a bit out of place. He had little to offer the wolf. There was no continuously stocked cache here. His teeth pressed against each other but his expression did not shift to reveal the inner conflict he experienced, and he was able to stave off a possessive growl that rose with the thoughts of what he had buried in the snow mere wolf lengths from them. It was a learned restraint. He had always been a bit more wild than the rest of his blood. His pragmatic father had said it best: instincts were the most important lessons their ancestors had learned, the ones that had helped them survive in the beginning. They were there to guide him but he was not to let them control him. That concept had resonated with Skwol.

"Come then," Skwol invited as he moved toward his stash without fully turning his back to the strange male. His company would be kept in his periphery at all times. By now he had shrugged off the demands of his instincts to keep the food to himself, and his large paws made short work of uncovering a pair of hares. He clamped his jaws around one and took it aside, gesturing with his broad muzzle to the other.

"Eat."