Big Salmon Lake And the grass all smells the same

@Needle

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Stark lay sprawled beneath the shade of a twisted old tree, his body stretched out over the cool earth, enjoying a rare moment of rest. The dappled sunlight warmed his thick fur, and for once, he let himself drift, surrendering to the quiet around him. His breaths came slow and steady, muscles relaxing into the ground as he allowed his senses to dull.

But his nap didn’t last long. Slowly, his eyes blinked open, sleep falling away with an agitated huff. Tongue lapping at his own jaws and lips, he noted the distinct cottonmouth he'd developed. He shook the stiffness from his limbs before padding over to the large, looming lake that centered within his vision. His descent down the hill was slow and tedious, paws scraping at the soft ground.

The lake's water was cold and clear, and the pale wolf lapped it up eagerly. Cupping large mouthfuls of the crystal-clear water down his throat, and he only stopped when he was satisfied with a gut full of it. He let himself settle into a seated position, head tilting backwards to enjoy the feel of the sun upon his fur—until the faint rustle of movement caught his ears. His peace was swiftly disturbed.

Stark’s head snapped up, his good eye narrowing. “I know you’re there. Come out. Now.”

A pair of crisping bushes rustled in resignation, and Needle slunk from between them with the air of a smug cat.

About time you noticed, she sassed, self-satisfied. What are you half deaf, too?

The girl kept a certain radius between them, training her eyes on the gargoyle with careful concentration. She wasn’t going to let him just waltz up to her this time. Not again.

He’s not a threat. He’s all talk.

The mantra she kept to still her heart. Once all the nervousness had dissipated from their first meeting, she had convinced herself that she’d been all riled up for nothing.

He’s not a threat.

It was foolish to follow him, she knew, to stalk him for days as she had. But he was the only wolf she had come across since abandoning the rogues, and she hadn’t been alone this long since getting herself lost the first time. The quiet disturbed her. And hunting the gray wolf made things less quiet.

He’s all talk.

Where are you going, anyway?

There was only the slightest glimmer of surprise upon Stark's jagged face when the gangly yearling came waltzing from her hiding place within the brush. He offered her the faintest curl of his lip, a gnarled and displeased grimace that spoke volumes to how he was feeling. Her words left lashings upon his ego, and he responded with a stiff growl. He couldn't believe—no, couldn't fathom—that he hadn't noticed her following him.

It had been days since their encounter. He had left her sniveling, while he emerged victorious. Ah, he sounded like a fool. Letting a pup step all over him. "Don't get used to it, gosling." If she were going to be stalking him, they may as well get acquainted. He thought gosling a fitting nickname. It was cute, and he was getting the idea that this girl didn't like cute.

He stepped away from the lake's edge, the pebbles and sand that scattered the bank skittering away from his lumbering paw steps. His head lowered and his yellow eye narrowed, squinted, as he made to get a better look at the kid.

He snorted. "Nowhere." He replied, his tongue rasping across his maw. "I'm sight-seeing. Not that it's any of your concern." His nose snarled up in momentary disdain. He didn't want her tailing him around like a lost puppy. If her parents abandoned her, that was no problem of his own. He wasn't going to play daddy.

"Scurry along."

The cat who ate the canary. Now, it was her turn to smirk.

But the gratification didn’t last long.

Gosling.

Needle frowned at the word. Was it an insult? Was it praise? It sounded small – soft – yet she couldn’t be sure what it meant. She turned her nose up at it. He was mocking her, surely. And still, her glimmer of frustration could not quell the sudden flutter in her breast.

She was reminded of a time when she felt warmed by the sweet names her Mama and Mami called her; a time when she had longed to be pretty and loved…

It all felt so distant and childish to her now.

Her ears flicked forward as the wolf moved, and her claws massaged the earth as she prepared to fly at a moments notice. She watched the water drip from his chin, the ripple of his muscles. Again and again, her eyes danced across his scar. Nowhere, huh? Sight-seeing. Sure.

Ignoring his dismissal, she fixed him with a thoughtful narrowing of her skeptical gaze. Well, since you aren’t doin’ anything, you should make yourself useful. There’s a deer herd around this lake. They have fawns. She had watched Old Hound and his band chase them once, many moons back, when the babies had been much smaller. Those same fawns were likely clocking in around 50 or 60 pounds by this time of year.

I hunted them before. It’s an easy job for two. A lie to encourage him that it wouldn’t be a waste of time. Oh, she could hunt. Rabbits hardly stood a chance once she set her sights on them – but she’d never successfully hunted anything larger than that. Hence, the skin-and-bones look she was modeling.

She needed him, clearly, but it was best to make the deal seem mutually beneficial. If such a thing were even possible.

Stark eyed her with a mix of amusement and suspicion, her thin frame and quick, darting eyes telling him more than her words ever could. She was desperate, maybe a little clever, but certainly hungry. For a passing moment, he was silent, eyeballing her with a cold, judgmental glower. He wasn’t fooled, but he wasn’t entirely opposed, either.

Being on his own hadn't been a task for the wolf. Even back home, he kept to himself—did most things for himself. Hunting his own game was something he'd always had under lock, only if because he felt like he had to. Though he was born with a silver spoon between his teeth, he didn't keep it there for long. Of what Stark could remember, he kept close to his heart. He would never abandon his ideals.

He tsked.

"So," his voice was low and skeptical, "an ‘easy job,’ huh?" His gaze trailed over her, not unkindly, taking in the ribs jutting under her fur, the way her claws sank anxiously into the ground. She didn’t need to know he could see right through her little performance. "Odd thing to say when you look like you’ve hardly had a meal worth chasing."

Without waiting for her reply, Stark turned, scenting the air. The faintest hint of deer lingered on the breeze, enough to pique his interest. She had a point: hunting alone took its toll, and he could use the meat just as much as she clearly did. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Fine,” he grunted, eyes narrowing as he looked back at her. “But we do it my way. If you spook them, you’re on your own.”

Without waiting for a response, he moved forward, signaling her to follow. He spoke just loud enough for her to hear as they set off into the trees in search of cover, "Keep close and stay quiet."

A small gulp; a soundless prayer.

She endured his merciless gaze in silence, anxiously hoping he couldn’t see right through her glass bravado. He could, of course. She was nothing but a teenager playing at adulthood, a miserable little wretch, a buoy without anchor, but he was gracious (or conniving) enough not to let on that he knew this.

Needle felt her teeth clench at his words.

I said easy for “two,” numbskull. She wanted to snap at him, her virulent tongue staved only by the sudden swing of his head, the twitch of his whiskered muzzle. The bolts of her jaw tightened further, preparing for rejection, but when he turned to her again, it was to relent.

It worked?
The girl could hardly keep surprise from lighting her features, and unbridled pride flooded through her at the perceived win. She had to force herself to restrain a wag of her tail, and she creased her brows to cement a very serious expression.

Good, she proclaimed, giving the stranger an all-business nod. Deal.

It didn’t bother her that he wanted to lead. It was half of a huge weight off her shoulders, actually. But the other half remained, reminding her that she’d actually need to perform, or else all this would’ve been for nothing.

Skittering after him, she fell neatly into his shadow, keeping enough distance to assure her own safety should he turn on her, while matching his long stride with quick and quiet steps. She kept her trap shut for now, her thoughts racing and her heart hammering in her throat.

Her first deer hunt.

And it had to go right.

Though she tried to match his pace, he felt her hovering at a cautious distance, her presence like a whisper behind him. There was a tension to her, a barely contained excitement laced with the obvious, unspoken fear of failure. It reminded him of younger days when proving oneself felt like a battle in its own right.

It was the unfortunate fate of the second born child. Forever cursed to wither in the righteous shadow of his Queen sister.

Stark’s nose worked to pick up the faint scent of the herd. He adjusted his pace, giving her enough room to make her own moves when the time came but close enough that he could intervene if she faltered. He had a feeling he'd need to.

He didn't know why he felt the need to offer the girl some parting advice, but he couldn't stop his jaws from moving. “Keep your eyes forward. Trust your instincts." He sniffed. “And don’t lose your nerve.”

Stark slowed, signaling her to move as he crouched, his muscles coiled. He could see the soft brown coats of the fawns, the way they moved close to their mothers, blissfully unaware of the danger that lay in wait. Stark didn't offer Needle any warning before he moved, instead expecting her to read his body language.

He launched forward, propelling out of the brush with the strength that bunched up in his legs. Without hesitation, the brute broke into a sprint, tearing free of the undergrowth and into the fen clearing they grazed within. His focus was singular as he zeroed in on one of the smaller fawns, watching as its mother wasted no time in fleeing from its side.

How awfully maternal of her.

He moved with practiced strength and grace. With a self-assuredness that his little shadow could not hope to imitate in this moment. Her mind was a blur of thoughts and scents, his chief among them. It occurred to her that she’d gotten used to the smell of him – while tracking him, spying on him.

Being so close to her target now only stirred up disquieting sensations.

Was this safe? Could she trust him?

…did she have a choice?

The stonefall wolf counseled her on the game to come.

Needle’s nagging feelings were pushed back in favor of survival. There was no time to despair or second-guess now. Life’s not given to you. That’s what Goodnight said once. You’ve gotta take it.

She crouched as the stranger did, her pawsteps as careful as if the ground might erode. She watched his spine arch, spring loading for a burst of speed. Her eyes found his waypoint, the fawn, just as he launched himself forward.

And the take ain’t always fair.

Needle peeled off after him, trying to stay focused on their target, but the scattering herd, their bluntrock hooves thundering closer than they’d ever been, made her pulse race like never before. The urge to cut and run was powerful, and only adrenaline kept her from merely drowning amongst the sea of legs and fearscent.

Eyes forward! Eyes forward!

There. The fawn. The stranger was hot upon it, but it the creature was veering through the grass, just barely keeping abreast of him. Without needing to think it, Needle angled to intercept their quarry’s path. She reached, reached, reached – but her jaws closed on empty air, and the breath was forced out of her as she and fawn collided, sending them both rolling hard into the dirt.

Just as he was about to shout an order at the girl, she took it upon herself to skirt into the path of the fawn and lunge for it's throat.

"Don't!" His shout came in the form of a snarling clashing of his teeth. By the time he'd gotten it out, they were already rolling violently to the ground.

Vezof.

Stark moved in an instant, his instincts snapping into place as he watched Needle collide with the fawn, their bodies tangled in a volatile tumble. The muscles along his pale frame coiled with a pent energy, and his legs launched him forward. He was intent to close the garnered distance within a heartbeat, else Needle trip up and face injury.

She was vulnerable beneath the thrashing hooves and flailing limbs of the large fawn, and something like paranoia coiled about Stark's calloused heart when he heard the calamity of noises. Shrill cries of the fawn mingled with the pained yelp of Needle as the two squabbled upon the ground.

He didn't care anything about this whelp. But for some agitating and perplexing reason, fear held him in it's iron shackles. As if he'd been here before.

Stark was upon them after what felt like an eternity, his powerful jaws finding the back of the fawn’s neck in a crushing grip. The creature kicked and struggled, a frantic, pitiful bleating filling the air as it fought to get free.

While Needle was able to recover from the tangled and kicking limbs of the strong fawn, he pushed a majority of his weight down upon the thing. He had to bite down harder to ignore the discomfort of hooves pressed into his sides.

A flash of his good eye cut towards the yearling, a silent will for her to act. Kill.

Hey… what kind of giant mutant baby deer is this?

The fawn outweighed the girl.

And Needle was already flying through the air, mid-bite, when this realization hit her.

It hit her two ways; the second way hurting a lot more than the first. It felt like running pell-mell into a tree.

For a moment, she went entirely numb. She could feel every blow to her body, felt it being battered – crushed – by the fawn’s surprising heft, but there was no pain at first. Those gangly legs were far stronger than they looked, and Needle took many glancing blows in her shock, yet the stinging didn’t hit her right away. She fell from the tangle of desperate limbs, only tangentially aware that he was there – somewhere above her.

Needle was on her feet again, gasping, begging for air, as her bulging eyes swiveled about wildly to regain her bearings. Their gazes locked, one hard sunyellow gemstone to two swollen, weepy lemons.

Kill.

His hellish voice hissed through her, reverberating deep down, down to her marrow. Harsh. Commanding. Galvanic voice. Feral eyes looked to where his body pressed down on the fawn, locating the throb of an exposed throat, pumping with blood and fear and life and death.

She dove for it, teeth-first, and wrenched loose the hydrant’s bolt in a rush of bloodwater. And she clamped down hard, stymieing half as much as she spilled.

For a second, Stark’s gaze bore into hers, fierce and unyielding, eyes demanding nothing short of completion. The same look that had been given to him time and time again in his youth.

He could see the flicker of detachment in her face, the stunned look of someone thrown into the cruelty of predator and prey. But the prince didn’t relent; this was the way of survival, and she would learn it. His stare alone seemed to drive the command through her, like a jolt straight to her conscious.

Good, he thought.

Make it count.

As her teeth sank into the fawn’s exposed throat, Stark watched with a mixture of grim satisfaction and the faintest thread of pride. The blood poured forth in a hot, unyielding rush, a dark river of crimson against her silver fur. A fierce jaw clamped around the fawn's throat, almost desperate, half-suffocating the creature, half-spilling the youngling's life against the earth.

It poured in creamy rivulets down the fawn's chest, soaking into it's coarse fur.

It stirred something deep. A begrudging pride.

Soon enough, the wild thrashing of the fawn ceased. The rise and fall of its chest and shoulders had become nothing. The life glazed over from its wide, brown eyes. Only then did he rip his teeth free of it's scruff, and relent the pressure from his coiled muscles.

His beady stare settled upon Needle and her bloodied jaws. "Good, then." His voice was a mellow vox. His bloodied tongue rasped across his scarred maw to wipe it clean of the blood that stained his gray fur. "Now is when you reap your spoils."

The subdued praise washed over her, same as the slowing blood. Her senses started to return to her, flickering on one switch at a time. The taste and smell of iron overwhelmed her. The painful throbbing across her body began to strengthen, radiating from nearly every part of her. The palpitation of adrenal fire in her veins reached her consciousness, and she became aware of a low growl in her throat, more gurgle than anything. The fawn’s lifelessness reached her last, belatedly, but still she refused to relinquish her grip.

Wild eyes trained upwards, latching onto the stranger, whose drystone pelt had been darkened with a spatter of black-red. For the briefest of seconds, she wondered what he was thinking behind that dispassionate yellow eye, if she was going to have to fight him for her share. The thought of death trickled in like air from an improperly sealed window, oscillating now with the growing perception of physical pain.

Now is when you reap your spoils.

Needle was then a dog commanded to eat. A basal creature consumed by bloodlust. She could hurt later. She would die another day. She didn’t have time for all that right now.

Hunger called.

She began to scarf down what she already had in her mouth, not caring that the belly would’ve been a far better choice to start. She tore ravenously into the carcass, teeth clacking against bone as she chewed through chord and sinew. She smacked greedily, ate blindly. And starvation fizzled, along with her fears.

Stark watched her with a steady, detached gaze, his single yellow eye unblinking as she tore into the carcass. Her hunger was fierce, raw—a familiar sight to him. He’d seen wolves, the kind bred by desperation, devour without thought, driven by nothing but the need to survive another day. The way she ravaged the kill spoke volumes to what had been denied to her.

No longer, he thought. There was a sense of justice that consumed the wolf, driven by a dejection he knew all too well.

He stood beside her, silent, as she fed, his own hunger temporarily forgotten in the face of her feast. Stark’s ear twitched at the sound of her frantic chewing, the clack of teeth on bone, the snarls bubbling up from her throat as she ate.

When she paused, if only for a moment to catch her breath, he spoke, his voice low, steady, and without the faintest hint of judgment. “There’s strength in hunger,” he murmured, his gaze distant, as if he were speaking more to himself than to her. “But learn to wield it. Don’t let it wield you."

She was a wild thing, hardened by scarcity, but with guidance, hunger could be honed into something sharper. He could give her that guidance. He would give her that guidance. A gosling beneath his practiced wing.

“Eat your fill, gosling,” His voice was quieter now, but it brimmed with some sort of depravity. “This is your kill. It’s what you’ve earned.” He stood and allowed her the space to claim her share. This moment belonged to her—her first kill, her hard-won victory. And though he rarely allowed sentiment, something inside of him demanded it—

—for his gosling.