Haunted Wood every atom of my blood

the crunch is felt more than heard, tendons and bone giving way betwixt her fangs. the rodent pressed beneath a forepaw oozes red into the snow, the whelp hunched over her catch. it's cold—the damp kind that settles into her marrow, slows her blood and cuts against her throat. already, she's covered in a fine layer of snow, eyes half-shuttered against the winds as she worries at the creature's spine. 

the sharp cut of the cold brings forth a kind of restlessness she can not place; a few moment later, the scant remains of the rodent are buried and she's on the hunt for @Valour or @Clay, keen on inciting something with either of them, step quick and stiff.