Stone Circle every little lie in this world comes from dividing

For now, nobody comes forward to contest him. Vermouth thinks it’s only a matter of time before one of her comrades appears from the woodwork to defend the claim he can smell with every inhale.

He makes his way toward the looming boulders, wondering just how they ended up here. Vermouth sniffs around their bases, reading various tales, and then hikes a leg to take a hot and steaming piss right on the face of the biggest one.

As he leaves his mark, his faded yellow eyes find and fix on Vixen trawling in his wake. She slouches, he notices. He pinches off his stream and settles his leg back on the ground, still staring at her.

“I’m Vermouth,” he tells her, “and I’m going to call you Vixen.”

He waits to see if his words—or his pungent scent now wafting on the wintry air—prompts a reaction from her or anyone else who might be lurking in this meadow.