Sleepy Fox Hollow To the house in the pines where the road ends

powerful shoulders rolled beneath heavy winter pelage; breath rose in a white column of steam from flared nostrils as mahler pursued a terrified hare along the bottom curve of a snow-laden ridge.
its scream pierced the quiet cold, blood flinging in an arc of heated scarlet across the drifts. hunger roiled within, a dull ache that was sharpened at the taste of salt.
he allowed himself the better part of its flesh and took up the remainder for the cache. it was upon his way that he heard the call of the greyscale she-wolf; it sent intrigue rippled into his psyche, and he flung the half-eaten hare over his shoulder.
mahler arrived before wylla blood-stained and awash with snow, lilac stare intractable as ever, and drew to a halt some feet away — desperate to keep her from hearing the quick pace of his heart.