Bearclaw Valley a descent into the maelstrom

she is still mouthing 'dead' to herself when the woman speaks again, and one word cuts through her concentration: 'mama.' she has nothing to associate it with, nothing to apply it to, but it sounds comforting, and as she tries to sound it out silently, it feels nice in her mouth.

muhmuh, Avicus murmurs, and then bends to nose at the dead thing again. it smells different—not at all like a wolf. even its fur is different. she draws her tongue along its cheek and tastes the earth, and pines, and a metallic taste she'll come to know as blood, dried along the corner of its mouth.

she flops to her belly and starts to gnaw on one of the muskrat's forelegs, her milk teeth not quite penetrating the skin. she enjoys the taste.