Porcupine Ridge ❝—berries tart & lilac sweet.❞ (wdg.)

thrashing, and thrashing, and another little beast finds its way to him. sharpened fangs meeting treetrunk throat, digging right into his flesh. 

"fuck you, little devils!"

it's the last thing he ever screams as a ribbon of blood is ripped from his throat, spraying the air with crimson and staining his fur the same. finally he thinks of how he's put up with those little beasts all these years. and now he was dying to just a pair of then- the age must have dulled his senses, he thinks. and what a pathetic way to go down, blinded and thrashing and choking on his own blood. at least all he once knew were far, far away. none of his own would ever have to see him like this- defeated and fallen. he can feel the pain rip through him, and the blood filling his throat and he coughs, coughs, and falls to the ground with a heavy thud. his heart slows and stops, flank stills, and blood pours from empty eye sockets as the wolves do whatever they may with his torn corpse.