Flycatcher Downs the art of getting by

Esche strangled himself on a laugh at the other's expense. He knew the humbling pain of an empty stomach and he was sympathetic of the dark wolf's plight, but survival demanded a pseudo sociopathic level of dismissiveness. Caught between the two poles, he managed merely to throw another benevolent grin at the stranger between meaty bites. He even allowed a friendly wag of his tail for the wit—breakfast and a song, how lucky for him.

A somber expression fell upon his pro tem companion, though. Esche matched it with an inquisitive look of his own. He raised his head, blood thick and dripping from his chin, and studied him; and once he'd said his piece, Esche repaid him with a snort. "Prove it." He sat up, nearly upchucked from the quantity of new, undigested material in his formerly neglected guts, and decided it was time to forfeit what was left. He got to his feet and padded away from the cadaver, still ripe with meat, the thought of which made him feel faintly nauseous all of a sudden. He found a comfortable place to slouch by the sage, keeping the dark rogue in his sight. 
He was partial to the suggestion. He liked the stranger so far. But he'd lost much civility over winter, and rather than give a straightforward answer, he snarked back with a sharp grin: "You sing. I will judge. Maybe you sound bad and I will not travel with you."