Arrow Lake and he floats outside my prison window

no sooner had thorn vacated the dugout, stigmata fell to it -- leaving the stalwart male to make his own way back to the ice-encapsulated prize. thorn had time to reflect on his way back the silent nature of their partnership  - he was a brute of few words, mostly because he was incapable of much introspection beyond what was required of him - but he saw a strength in curbing one's tongue, and guessed stigmata was a man of few, but possessive words when the mood suited him.

when he came back the vixen was long gone -- she had eaten her fill (a pathetic amount too, hardly more than a fistful of meat) and left a neat trail of pawprints in her wake. thorn found he was rather relieved - a surprise, given how ardent he wished his heart to be. he enjoyed killing - and did so without compromise when it suited him - but the stark fire of the vixen's pelt had struck his fancy as rare, even among a species known for their russet branding.

he did not spare the crows such softness -- a few nearly lost more than feathers as he fell upon them, sending a black cloud skyward. once more he labored over frozen sinew and hide, and once more he returned to stigmata, a second limb in tow -- but this time, the toil of his exertions was beginning to show in the slow drag of the hound's step.