Dawnlark Plains [m] haruspex

the bighorn, for that was what lay spatch-cocked before the woman, had been eviscerated in an expert fashion. what remained of the entrails spiraled out from where it sat, its check cavity stuffed with an assortment of objects with no obvious pattern. the hide had been pricked at by crows; now, parts of the interior had been excavated by the woman.
kukuvrak looked to be a barely-contained cacophony unto himself: purple-red coated his snout, staining the bloom of grizzle-white fur on his chest a garish crimson. the liver fell from his grasping teeth, one side first, then the other, plop, plop.
he turned an ear towards the oncoming stranger—but he was focused on the woman, and each stared the other down. he had been well fed through his travels and—watching her, it was a truth they shared. but she had disrupted something that she knew nothing about.
the newcomer, a man—kukuvrak spared a look.
he had one eye. he carried himself proudly.
kukuvrak looked to the woman again, wondering if she saw what he saw; his focus peeled from the carcass and affixed upon the man, instead. he prowled boldly in to range of One Eye, grimacing with wet, red teeth—