Duck Lake little dark age

"Your problem." Skífa hitched his lips higher, exposing more gumline and more teeth. He slung his head lower, shielding his throat. Any hope of the stranger making this easy quickly evaporated.

Hope... he was stupid for hoping for too much.

Weight shifted slightly off his right foreleg, more into his thighs. He stayed taut like a bowstring, ready to lunge one way or the other. He could tell the other wolf was shaking, even though he tried to hide it. "You want to get out of here, you give me the food." As he said this, Skífa was seized by a cheerful sort of desperation that made it impossible not to smile. Adrenaline made him jittery, and the threat of violence made his stomach churn, and he felt almost faint with fatigue. But he wasn't alone in this race to the bottom. The whole world was against both of them, and everything was going awry. If only one of them got to eat today, Skífa wanted it to be him.

"Tell you what," he added lowly, "you tear off a wing. Take it with you, eat. Give me the rest, and you can go. No trouble."

He tensed, slouching low. Desperate wolves don't talk back; he readied for a fight.