He slept the night in the woods, and when the first glimmer of morning came Mou was off again; he had no direction in mind, although in his haste he thought he was returning across the hills - only to find he'd crossed a more extensive, sun-baked and sprawling series of plains. By midday he was exhausted and feeling utterly exposed while the wind whipped at his angular figure. He could spy dark shapes on the horizon moving together - bison, not that he'd know it - and their presence made him more anxious. Even though his limbs were tired and he needed something to fill his belly, the ghost did not set out to hunt, and instead picked his way across the grassland.
The scent of meat was on the wind again, tainted only by the mineral-scent of inclement weather; he'd left behind one wave of rainfall and now expected another, which meant he would need shelter. The only shelter he could spy was the looming crags of the mountain range. The ghost was hardly suited for such a harsh environment but he was starving again, and any threat of rain would make his situation worse, so he continued to hike. The scent of meat - of blood, moreso - grew so strong that at one point he deviated from his brief plan and began scouring an outcropping of stonework for signs of a meal.
His presence caused an eruption of movement from a copse of trees, so Mou moved to intercept whatever the birds had found. He was skeptical, and kept his good eye roaming and ears attentive to signs of danger - until he came across the lovely sight of a mountain goat smashed to pieces on a scattering of jagged rocks. It looked as if the creature's throat had been ripped clean out of it, and most of the meat along the spine had been eaten away. A singular raven sat boldly near the head of the corpse, and it watched him intently, as if to judge him.
Mou stared the bird down for a minute or so, but he was too hungry to give in to the growing dread in the back of his mind. He ducked as he approached, and then gingerly reached out and grasped at the goat's nearby hock as if the limb might reanimate and strike him; he kept his eye on the raven, but with a few quick tugs he pulled the dis-articulated limb away from the main body and tensed for any retaliatory action by the bird.
It turned its head, but kept watching him; there wasn't a sound from either the bird or the wolf for a few minutes — then the discordant scratching of the haunch of meat against stone as Mou pulled it closer.
The scent of meat was on the wind again, tainted only by the mineral-scent of inclement weather; he'd left behind one wave of rainfall and now expected another, which meant he would need shelter. The only shelter he could spy was the looming crags of the mountain range. The ghost was hardly suited for such a harsh environment but he was starving again, and any threat of rain would make his situation worse, so he continued to hike. The scent of meat - of blood, moreso - grew so strong that at one point he deviated from his brief plan and began scouring an outcropping of stonework for signs of a meal.
His presence caused an eruption of movement from a copse of trees, so Mou moved to intercept whatever the birds had found. He was skeptical, and kept his good eye roaming and ears attentive to signs of danger - until he came across the lovely sight of a mountain goat smashed to pieces on a scattering of jagged rocks. It looked as if the creature's throat had been ripped clean out of it, and most of the meat along the spine had been eaten away. A singular raven sat boldly near the head of the corpse, and it watched him intently, as if to judge him.
Mou stared the bird down for a minute or so, but he was too hungry to give in to the growing dread in the back of his mind. He ducked as he approached, and then gingerly reached out and grasped at the goat's nearby hock as if the limb might reanimate and strike him; he kept his eye on the raven, but with a few quick tugs he pulled the dis-articulated limb away from the main body and tensed for any retaliatory action by the bird.
It turned its head, but kept watching him; there wasn't a sound from either the bird or the wolf for a few minutes — then the discordant scratching of the haunch of meat against stone as Mou pulled it closer.
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