Redtail Rise still miles to go till i arrive

faust regards the lone figure with quiet scrutiny, his breath curling into the frigid air like the smoke of a dying fire. he had seen men like this before—thin, wiry, living off the bones of others. there was no shame in it. winter forced the desperate to survive however they could.
his gaze flickers to the carcass, to the half-picked remains, before settling once more on the stranger.
no. his voice is rough, final. i eat only from what i kill.
there is no boast in his words, only truth. he has never scavenged, not even in the hardest of winters. it is a matter of principle, of pride. the day he cannot bring down his own prey is the day he does not deserve to eat.
his tail flicks behind him, slow, measured. he does not move closer, but neither does he turn away.
what about you? he asks after a beat, voice quieter, though no less firm. do you kill, or do you wait for the crows to guide you?