penchant for trouble

Her fangs found their mark, clenched around the pest's midriff. Ah, sweet success. Nothing like it.

Meeting the wolf's verdant gaze with a proud aspect, she waited for further direction. More words. Jökull watched as she opened and closed her mouth. Hey. She had teeth, too! And they were bigger than hers. Taken by those pearly whites, Jökull was ever so slowly hypnotized by the motion of mandible and maxilla; the prowess of dentition fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. With each audible snap of Leaf's jaws, Jökull's own copied those motions. First, she gummed her prey. Before too long, however, her fangs perforated the tender epidermis of the mouse.

Then the squeaking and struggling really began.

Startled by the mouse's agonized yells, Jökull gripped him ever snugger; fiercer. Blood – her first real taste of it. A delicacy unlike any other, but not as fulfilling as Tuwawi's milk. Instinct wound her jowls tighter and tighter until there was nothing left but a squasy, insipid carcass. Unhinging, she finally let the mouse go. It lifelessly fell to the ground, still leaking blood.

Jökull was fascinated. Fascinated by the metallic sapidity coating her tongue, by the force she exhibited just now and by the very real, very empowering sentience of having ended a life. One so minuscule, but nonetheless a life. Should she not be feeling something else, though? Guilt? Regret, perhaps? She felt both, yes, but they were so infinitesimal compared to how satisfied she is.

Locking her gaze with the fox-like pixie before her, Jökull grinned a gory smile. Her's was the visage of violent delectation, for Leaf has given her the gift of Death.