Little Goat Mountain the red string of fate tugs at my heart

They’re slowly but surely coming to a complete stop. The shewolf never lets go and neither does Donovan. The poor little animal is screaming for its mother, for anyone. Screaming at the pain they are inflicting on it. The brindled male feels no guilt at the helpless sounds. Perhaps he would once he had pups of his own, but for now, he doesn’t.

Much to easily he’s clamping down onto the neck and it releases a shrill, chokes cry. In a moderately quick attempt at putting it out of its misery he shakes the animal viciously between his jaws. A solid crack from its weak neck signaling its end as the life force of its blood seeps from the wound. He’ll finally release it now, blood covering his muzzle and the white-cream of his chest. He smiles charmingly at the other shewolf and licks him chops casually.