Barrow Fields death becomes you

A yelp from behind gripped tall, tattered ears and wrenched them back against the dark wolf’s narrow skull, turning his headpiece upon its axis tick by inexorable tick. He whipped around like a thing possessed, an ugly snarl contorting his scarred muzzle, but it fell away the moment he realized — here, again, was the girl. Brimstone eyes took on a feverish light; he was ashamed of the violence that crept within his bones, and sought to appease Her with the slow, crumpled offering of his submission. Long limbs twitched and shifted into place like a poorly piloted marionette’s, his spine slinking and creaking into a guilty skulk that drew him away from the carcass and closer to Her. He did not ask himself why She looked different this time — She was Benevolence, and it was not his place to question Her.

When he was still too far away to touch or be touched by Her, he curled his haunches beneath himself and thrust his unblessed maw toward the earth in a hangdog manner. The curve of his hackled back formed a roughhewn gravestone as he cocked his head to look obliquely up at Her. Within his bloodied mouth his tongue rolled and turned upon itself, but he could not find a greeting for Her and merely issued a threadbare whine of supplication.