Flycatcher Downs the art of getting by

Luck was magnetic, and soon enough, he had company. A dark lupine shape padded into his periphery, vulturous and bold and uncomfortably, surprisingly close. 

His adrenaline spiked in an instant, and he gurgled on a growl with his mouth full. His black-banded hackles fanned over his backbone, his ears sank to his head, and he slouched awkwardly behind the doe as if he might be half-puma. He stared at the other wolf's feet—but kept glancing toward his face, and even once snatched a glimpse at the stranger's terra-cotta eyes. 

"Mine," the yearling warned, his growl surfing over the undertone of a whine. With the front of his throat and underjaw stained a slick maroon, he flashed his incisors and, feigning confidence, briefly flagged his tail.

He couldn't possibly eat the whole thing, no, but sharing involved a willingness to ration what he had and he couldn't afford that mindset. He stole another bite from the doe's underbelly, scarfing it down with more urgency. The darker wolf might have friends, or might decide to chase him off, so Esche had to get what he could while the getting was good. Because, clearly, if the stranger pressed the issue, Esche wasn't going to defend a dead deer. Not today.