Otter Creek the peace and safety of a new dark age

The strigoi moved inland, escaping the bitter, salty tinge of the air in favor of the mountains and plains. He has yet to decide whether to play out the winter as a loner or join a band or pack. Either option has its benefits and detriments, though the former had more benefits than the latter. 

He finds his way to a stream, free from winter's frozen grasp, left to roar contently down its track. He is not immensely thirsty — blood cakes onto his chest and throat, even down to his paws. He is willing to risk the cold waters to clean any last traces of his kill from him. The freezing winds had seemingly solidified the maroon nectar to his fur, becoming infuriating to clean with teeth and tongue alone. 

The creek's bank is not empty, however. He sees her across the way, and as he approaches her features are easier to discern. Her face is blank, eyes closed with concentration. He smiles briefly at her naiveté, before his face regains its stoicness. 

It is not wise to be so lost in reverie out in the open, He says the words cooly, observing the girl from the opposite bank. His body does not sing with hunger, having just feasted. He can bandy words with another without the draw to slash their throats and bathe in the red liquid that spilled from out of it. At least for the moment.