Stone Circle every little lie in this world comes from dividing

Her pungent scent makes his eyes water even as he slinks through the glade, keeping tabs on the glimpses of russet fur between the trees. He gradually closes the distance, muscles coiling beneath his swarthy fur as he prepares for the bum rush. Vermouth watches as the vixen crouches beside a small stream that winds through the snow like a silver ribbon. She drinks delicately. He makes a swift strike. When she attempts to flee, he springs upon her back and crushes her throat in his jaws.

He lets her carcass slide from his mouth, slumping to the ground as blood pools around the fox's ruined halse. More of it drips from his teeth, though Vermouth cleans his chops as he stands over his kill, catching his breath. As soon as his breathing returns to normal, he snatches the warm, limp body from the melting snow and begins loping toward a crop of boulders in the distance.

Before he reaches them, he grinds to an abrupt halt. He's approaching a claimed territory. Vermouth loiters, the dead fox dangling from his mouth for a moment before he sets it at his paws. He pins one against the cooling remains, the soft fur tickling his toes as he takes heavy whiffs of the wintry air.