Blacktail Deer Plateau Dissolving the seeds of a moment

It did not feel like home here, though the scents of the wolves she was bonded to through blood oath were strong. She had been happy in the forest—well, as happy as the moody yearling could be—and Zombie had left it with a sour taste in her mouth. They had spent some time making their way through the mountains that seemed to divide their private little valley from the rest of the world, cold and hungry and tired as they followed the movements of the thinning herds. Their journey had led them here.

She supposed it was prime territory to claim. The plateau had its own small forest, and its back was protected by mountainous walls. Its front sloped sharply downwards like a miniature, rocky cliff. It would be easy to defend, if it ever came to that, and had plenty of space for both their numbers and any herds that might choose to (stupidly) graze in the area. It did not feel like home, but they had only recently arrived. She supposed the feeling would come with time.

Listlessly, Zombie moved through the pack's land, femur grasped loosely in her jaws as always. It was the only thing in her life that did not change. Sometimes, as crazy as it sounded, the thin yearling believed it was her only friend. She didn't really know the rest of her pack mates, and while she did tend to linger in the shadowy fringe of pack life they all seemed content to let her stay there.

Somewhere along the way, one of her paws met with something hard. She paused in her movements, only to suddenly realize her mouth was watering around the femur and there was the unmistakable stench of carrion in the air. Electric eyes going wide, the yearling set her prized femur down and set a protective paw over it before thrusting her snout into the open (and mostly picked clean) ribcage of a blacktail deer.