Bitterroot Valley ✢ Pretty boy

the scent of caribou draws the stoneson with a watering mouth and a wild, reckless glint to fiery golden gaze. the musk of a large, warm meal was tempting to the young hunter, forced to survive on decaying scraps stolen and small woodland critters he was able to scrounge up. it was his own fault — having given up the search for his father and brother.

he's stuck in an endless loop of memories that rattle the cage of grief he has yet to fully work through, of hunting small birds for his mother, for him as the sickness slowly ate away at her bit by bit; unbeknownst to him.

a pale figure in the distance, gaze apparently focused on the herd catches ezra's attention. slinking body pauses, wild gaze roving from the stranger to the herd. the young and the sick, protected by the able bodies cleverly situated. it appears random, their grazing positions but ezra knows better. it's strategic. he understands, protect the pack, be tooth and claw for those who couldn't fight.

but mercy would be crushed beneath the the gnaw of hunger in his belly. a small pant pushes from betwixt his lips. logic tells him to hang back, to not be so foolish but hunger nips at his heels like a hellhound. still, he doesn't move yet, knowing that his accents of red would give him away: to the herd and to the stranger, if he was to look to his left. ...that was, providing ezra hadn't already been noticed.