Totoka River we grew under a bad sun

@Wallflower

the sky is bright with dawn. caw squints up towards it as he squeezes his way out of the rotten log he has slept in with the air of one profoundly unenthused, yawning sleepily as he stretches himself out. his movements are lazy, languid, and in the daylight the blood crusted into the soft whites and greys of his fur cracks and flakes like peeling paint, dark and rusty against the raw gleam of his eyes and the glistening bone of his teeth.

around him, the remnants of last night's meal are scattered; two half-eaten hares strewn about as though they have been preyed upon by a shrike in place of a wolf. but the tangle of intestine and organs and flesh from dusk have vanished in the light, and in their place are still a scarce few crows that flutter into the air when he emerges, like scraps of cloth on the wind, leaving only bits of fur and glossy feather in their wake.

there is one that does not leave, and caw wags his tail in greeting when he meets avis' eyes.

there is a single gleaming crow's feather tucked between the curve of avis' beak when she takes flight, landing neatly on his back, a familiar weight on his shoulders. he cranes his neck to allow her better access to the soft fur of his nape, and with a few gentle pulls the feather is tucked neatly in next to the others, like makeshift hackles to supplement his own.

caw shakes himself out and turns, considering. there is a pack behind him, of that he is certain -- he scented the borders yesterday through the hares' blood. a prickle of excitement runs down his spine as he turns in that direction, setting out at a languid lope across the patchy grass and snow. he has always been curious about packs. he has already dismissed their way of life as boring, but there is something different about each -- and he has seen his few that are almost close to the wolves he was raised with. 

there is nothing to match the adopted family that long ago dissolved -- the hordes of crows that would fill the skies at mealtimes, the praise he would get when he caught and consumed another pup as the rest would do, the blood-damp carcasses he would curl in for slumber -- but there is something faintly interesting about the few that pretend, and something much better about the way they, without fail, attack.