Blackfoot Forest and the only word there spoken was the whispered word,

---

cries echoed out in the dark wood, syllables and notes clashing discordantly in the rising darkness. white fangs flashed once, twice, rendering the day-old carcass split in a matter of moments, slim muzzle dipping into the vixen to tug at the entrails and splay them openly across the forest floor. there was no sadism behind the action, no desire to completely disfigure the corpse. 

he ignored the entrails entirely, moving high up the abdomen as the first of them dove to perch alongside him, two, three. they moved to tear and peck at the offering he had so carefully lain out, the boldest making to perch upon the spine a mere muzzle-length from the raven, who regarded them expressionlessly with shadowed, glassy gaze. sleek black-feather head tilted, canted, gaze meeting his own. and then he was accepted and ignored as the raven strode across the carcass, moving to meet his fellows.

stigmata's affection for forests and wealds and all manner of wooded venues did not extend to those woods without charm. and whatever charm blackfoot had was lost to the irksome cries of too many cooks foxes, as he noted with disdain that this place was overrun with them, for lack of a show from better predators. they were quick and clever -- the most wise of them ignoring curiosity to steer wide and clear of the annoyed wolf traipsing through their stomping grounds -- but one vixen had not been so fortunate.

he watched now as a grim, shadowy figure shared her carrion body with the crows. his eyes of great lackluster flashed thoughtfully as he took in the scene, but for the life of him he could not fathom why this male had treated the carcass with such precision. quiet, he continued to watch from the treeline, his outline taking on the properties of a gargoyle grown in the woods.

after too long gone unacknowledged, stigmata lost interest and slunk on.