Whitewater Gorge No Deliverence

Skwol did not take the same pride in scavenging as he did in a successful hunt, but he was not above the practice especially as a lone wolf in winter. Death sustaining life was a law as old as time. But it did not take him long to catch other scents with that blood, and the picture that his nose was revealing to him as he drew nearer was one that stiffened the hairs along his nape and spine, and caused his eyes and ears to swivel in anxious surveillance of his surroundings. His kind had fought here.

The white wolf was utterly appalled at what he saw. He frowned deeply, rumbled with palpable upset, and folded his ears as his gold eyes stared at the juncture where a neck should have met a head. He had never seen such unnatural and hideous disrespect, and he immediately suspected the gray male that was scent rolling in the mess of tracks and defiled snow and briefly curled his lip in his direction. But he quickly noted the other wolf's clean fur and stayed his knee-jerk fear and anger.

"What happened?" He asked as he smoothed his fur and shifted himself to a neutrally calm stance. He did not know the killed wolf but this was a crime against his entire being, against the principles he had been raised on. He hoped the death had been deserving — but even if it had been, the blatant disregard for life that was brazen on the state of the corpse greatly bothered him.