Emberwood and he sang about what i'd become

the bird hits the ground all but silently. his teeth and the power of his jaws have not yet done enough; it is still alive, and its wings flutter weakly, a mess of protruding bone and feather and vivid red that leaks out onto the snow. caw’s mouth yawns open wide as he watches it, drooling gobs of blood that drip from his chin and exposed teeth and tongue to his where his paws meet the snow. his fur is bristling wildly, feathers sticking up every which way.
 
he could kill it now, but there is something far more savagely satisfying about watching it struggle and slowly bleed out. his ruby eyes are fixed on it as it flaps, as its already-halting movements slow; he is, as always, too-fascinated by death, and there is something that might be unnerving about the hawk-like way he watches it, as though he has forgotten the rest of his body – the rest of the world – exists in the meantime.
 
more than that, he does not want to touch it any further. ravens are unclean – and he does not want the taste of its blood in his mouth any more, nor the temptation to swallow it.
 
the bird has not yet stilled when caw’s nostrils flare to a distinctly unfamiliar smell. though he is certain many wolves have wandered through here, their scents have all but faded – this is fresh, new. caw’s head tilts a fraction, ears flicking curiously, though his eyes remained locked on his prey; he feels avis shift on his back as she notices his movements.
 
he does not take more than a moment to decide whether to respond. “ave,” he says, his voice as cheerful as ever, even with the bloody sight before him. perhaps even more than usual.