Northstar Vale they call it lonely digging

The air is heavy with blood and the sound of tearing flesh, perhaps ominous to passing strangers under the cloak of night — but on this particular night, it's just some pissed-off guy having dinner. The Rochester pauses to reposition the mutilated hare between his forelegs, glancing up briefly with ears pulled forward before continuing his meal. There are wolf scents here, fresher than he'd like, though he does not intend on lingering long. His life has become fairly routine in this way, and the miles have long since blurred together; he doubts he'll remember a single detail of this place once it's behind him. He pauses again, drawing his tongue over his muzzle and casting another glance around the darkened vale. Suddenly it feels rather lonely, and though he tells himself he prefers it this way, his appetite fades with the thought. He pushes the half-eaten hare aside and settles, gaze fixing somewhere between the trees without truly seeing anything.