Barrow Fields and drawing lines around my body to recall my place

Renard hung there for a moment longer, forepaws suspended in the air and blood soaking into the salt-stiff fur of their chin and neck, before the deer finally bent like a branch snapping in the wind and, still doing its best to stand, folded to the ground.

To see the life leaving something – this close, jaws around its neck, blood flooding their mouth – licking at their muzzle around the fur and flesh caught between their teeth, the wolfdog shifted their stance and gripped, feeling the doe’s pulse grow slower, weaker, closer and closer to stopping completely.

But there was little need to speed the process when there was barely anything left of the doe’s neck to hold together. Instead, Renard slid a curious violet gaze back over to their hunting partner, saw him already looking back with teeth buried in an already near-motionless hind leg, and him offered a toothy smile dark with blood around the animal’s throat.

It held for a few moments, then passed, and the man planted his legs apart and threw his body back, snapping the deer’s leg back and forth. For a long moment Renard just blinked at him, because it – maybe too much judgment on their part, to assume that he wouldn’t be eager to play tug of war over the remains –

Not that they were judging, though! It had been so long since they’d just…played a game. Renard gave one wag of their curled tail, adjusted their grip, planted their paws in turn to mirror Donovan’s stance, and lurched backwards in turn, growling playfully as they yanked the body back to them.