Barrow Fields the streets all built on ancient bones

caw’s curiosity runs short very quickly. of course he knows this about himself; it is nonetheless as irritating as it has always been. he does not have the capacity to be truly mad, especially not over this – but there is an itch in his skin, now, ever-present and growing stronger, that wants some sensation. some emotion that is not bland nothing, but today does not seem like a day in which he will find it.
 
he wrinkles his nose and shakes dirt off his paws one at a time, fastidious, running his tongue over the pads and the dull curves of his claws. he does not like the feeling – he is not one to groom his coat until it shines, it is often crusted with blood and rotting wood dust at the best of times, but it is dirt he cannot stand. he would have remained there, scraping fragments of it free, except for avis’ trilling caw.
 
caw picks his head up, unhurried and languid, and turns, his eyes gleaming the color of raw blood in the light. the light bristle of his fur shows off the feathers threaded into the nape of his neck, a glossy black even darker than his own pelt, and he cocks his head, a faint thread of thrilled excitement stirring briefly in his belly as it always does when there is a potential fight – potential feeling – in front of him.
 
it is a woman who stands before him; she is smaller than he is, perhaps younger, and instantly the carnivore in him stirs, excitedly, to life.  
 
“hi there,” caw says, his voice cheerful as he slinks forwards, shadow-like, predatory, ears forward and tail raised slightly above his back legs. he leaves her no personal space, nostrils flaring as he draws close, noting the absence of pack-scent, the absence of other-wolf scent at all. he is close enough to touch as he circles her, eyes flaring with something like curiosity. the smile is bright on his face, but there is perhaps more tooth than necessary in the expression.