Blacktail Deer Plateau turn off your television

right, she was sorry. like he hadn't heard that before. except, he really hadn't. apologies didn't usually come to him but then again he didn't really do a whole lot to earn them either. if there was ever a skill that he possessed and had mastered, it was the art of aggravating and wounding with a barbed tongue, and then twisting his little fangs into it to make it bleed.
and even if he shouldn't have been sleeping out there in the open—the very thing made him scoff at her statement—there was little he could do about it. or wanted to do about it, really. it wasn't like he was swimming in a plethora of great options and finding this place had been sheer luck. or so he felt.
why? he fired back just as icy as the wind. because i might get stepped on? or eaten? or worse? was there a worse option? oh wait, death. the inevitable. his head shook and he rose, shaking off the snow that clung to him. this spot was ruined, just like his mood.
listen, if you're here to give me some advice about how winter is harsh and everyone is out to get me because of what i am, i've heard it all before. i'll survive, until he didn't and this he knew all too well. if his luck kept up, he was going to be scraggily and scrawny enough to pass through the eye of a needle by the time the snow melted. if it melted.