May Your Sorrows Have a Name

It was cold, and bitterly so. But despite this, Viinturuth simply hunched his shoulders and trudged on through the snow, eager to lay his eyes on whatever deer he'd been tracking through the morning hours. He was thankful when it veered deeper into the woodland, where the fierce winds would not chill him to the bone, but was very much anticipating a long day of trailing this lone creature.

When at last he found it, a quick investigation of it from a distance told him that it would not survive long on its own. A small doe, already painfully thin, would not last without the protection of its herd. Quickly slinking into position as the scrawny deer picked and chewed at some tree bark, Viinturuth attacked. Startled, the doe stumbled on exposed evergreen roots and fell, bleating, while the wolf seized her throat between his powerful jaws.

He ate his fill and, after doing so, buried some and left the remains for whatever pack-mate may be attracted to the area by the scent of blood. Back in Samarkand he had learned not to announce prey via howl, for it alerted not only comrades but also unwelcome, hungry outsiders. Letting the meat go to waste was a much better outcome than offering a free meal to some idiot coyotes or mountain lions.

With a full belly, the dark Frostfur began his search for a quiet and private place to rest. Instead, however, his gaze found the form of a dark pack-mate. Viinturuth observed him quietly for a short time, before woofing to alert the other male to his presence and beginning his approach.