Stone Circle devour to survive, so it's always been

There’s a smoky figure abstracted in the dying light, yet another border visitor and another reason to prick at the alpine ridge along her spine, though this one is soon recognized as the creek alpha. He is a man she’s not once spoken with but suspects she knows why he’s come all the same.

“You lose something?” Comes her call, wading forward to meet with him through the veld, “pitch black, shoulder-high, mouth dirtier than a fishwife's?"

Her tone teases but she drinks in his face now- fitted with tired eyes. A father’s worry, or something more? Silver eyes hold him in staid question.