Fox's Glade headlights flicker at me like a star

The snowfall piled as early evening painted the sky in shades of blushes and bruises. It felt warmer than it had earlier in the day, but he believed that had something to do with getting out of the shadow of the mountains now behind him to the west. Dirge stole away to the glade, taking temporary refuge beneath its thinning canopies, intending to settle in for the night. All things considered he had made good time in stealing away from the western mountains to here. The weather may not have been favorable to travel, but it was far from the first time he had covering distances in snow, and thankfully it had not deepened enough to slow him.

Within the confines of the glade, he had happened upon a warren of hares nestled together by chance, and short work was made of them. With the lot of them scattered and one firmly seized between his jaws, the question of whether or not he would go hungry tonight was not particularly high on his list. Getting to keep that tasty morsel to himself was another—he was not foolish enough to ignore the distant chatter of his ilk nearby. It was enough to drive him to seek the northernmost edges of the glade, perhaps, hopefully, to tuck him well out of harm's way should roving patrols and hunting parties come through.

Satisfied that there was nothing left to trouble him in the present, he settled along the roots of a towering, stubborn maple unwilling to let go of her autumn foliage, and tore into the hare. This was a messy affair, stripping and tearing hide from muscle, then muscle from bone, but the bloodied arrangement was tantamount to necessity; he intended to leave the carnage behind rather than cache it—let the beggers come for their table scraps—but for now, he savored the tender meat, and the crack of delicate bones.

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