The Wall Toome

faust watched her with an unreadable expression, his sharp green eyes fixed on the ice woman as she tore into the doe with savage intent. her fangs cracked bone, her jaws worked with the efficiency of hunger, and her pale form seemed almost feral in her focus. he made no move to stop her, no sound to break the wet rhythm of her feast.

when she paused briefly, his gaze flicked to the kill. without ceremony, he lowered his head and tore into the opposite side, the warmth of fresh blood slicking his muzzle as he worked. his size gave him the advantage, and he took his fill with deliberate, brutish precision. the meat was theirs, and he would not leave scraps for the scavengers.

as he ate, his eyes occasionally drifted to her, watching her movements with the wariness of a wolf accustomed to keeping company with unpredictability. when the tension between them grew thin enough to snap, faust lifted his head, licking the blood from his jaws.

he takes this as his own cue. she does not like to speak. frankly, neither does he. over the kill he steps with one foot, reaching out to her. his nose etched closer to her neck, scenting, smelling her as if adopting it to his memory. he makes no effort to leave her. it is clear she isn't as strong a hunter as he, and with the onslaught of winter, maybe she'd use her head and stay.