Stone Circle every little lie in this world comes from dividing

He smells her seconds before she appears, a lithe black figure darting right for his kill. Vermouth notes the livid patch covering half her face -- it matches the dead vixen -- as he bears down on the paw pinning the carcass in place. He feels it when her teeth snatch at it, trying to yank it. His other paw joins the first, brutally smashing the remains into the snowy earth.

At the same time, he bares his teeth and snarls. His fur raises as his faded yellow eyes bore into the dark she-wolf trying to thieve his hard-won prize. Vermouth snaps his teeth an inch from her face, a final warning. If she doesn't back off, he'll happily bloody her good side, make it match.