Silverlight Terrace we devoured the gods

the day inches to mid-afternoon with the aching slowness of blood beneath a bruise as he makes his way; slowly — as frustratingly slow as a tortoise — plagued by the ache of muscles and the rising tide of exhaustion. it has ebbed a bit since he got some fresh water in his system after trial and error, but it is not enough. his stomach aches and yearns for meat; for substance but without the strength to hunt on his own he is left to search for scraps like a beggar.

there is no pride to hinder him; and not necessarily any humility ...there is only the need to survive and the will to do whatever it took.

it is the scent of blood and meat that draws him like a hungry moth to a flame. upon his approach a small flock of ravens crowd 'round the mountain goat split open by some other predator that has abandoned it. they take flight at his quick, stumbling approach; a low possessive growl building in his chest.

he snaps at the nearest bird; a show of bravado.

salvia floods his mouth and he takes a greedy bite of the meat; tough and chewy. it had been abandoned long enough for the corpse to grow cold and stiff in rigor mortis. he tears another chunk before he's even finished chewing the first; giving into his glutton desires.

the mixed metal-and-salt scent of his own hunt leaves garland noseblind, ignorant to the scene he stumbles into until the moment he lays eyes on the other wolf. he lets out a soft gasp, dropping the fish into the dirt as his jaw slackens with the shock of the sight. it's been so long since he's seen the face of desperation, so brutal and outright like this. the stranger is a ragged creature, giving a half-mad impression with the way he tears into what garland considers a meal for scavengers. pity swells in his chest, despite his own rumbling hunger. his own ribs peek faintly through the pale gold of his flanks, but this malnourishment is self-imposed; born of his own lack of will to live, rather than bitter circumstance. even in these first scant moments, it seems to garland that the stranger's own reasoning is different. why else would he be tearing at a stale corpse so ravenously? uncertain yet wanting to help, garland takes a step back and chuffs softly, abandoning his fish. hey — if you're that hungry, you can have this, he gestures with his nose to the significantly fresher food he'd left on the ground. it's probably better than days old goat.

he chews and chews until his meal is but staling paste in his mouth and swallows with visible winces but it not cowed by the rasp of pain as it slides down his raw throat. he tears off another chunk with vigor that was sparked by hunger and the desire to eat as much as he could until he was chased away. the ravens are not happy with him, he knows. he can see the shadows of a few circling, others standing on the ground, hopping nearer to test him.

he takes another chunk; meat grossly dangling from his clasped jaws as the voice of another reaches out with grasping fingers towards him. his shoulders stiffen and jade eyes snap up; upper lip curling back as he lets out a warning growl, large paw stepping on the goat in an effort to solidify his message.

it is an effort to make sense of the words; to rearrange them and put them in the right order and to form his own response as he chews possessively. he eyes the fish with unfiltered disdain — the seaqueen has tossed him out of her kingdom like unwanted jetsam and flotsam; tossing him upon the shore like a rejected ragdoll. why would he want anything that came from her?

jade eyes study the golden, long furred, floppy eared... wolf? before him with weariness. how to explain that he could not accept anything from her domain? fresh ...or not. keep it. he speaks, surprised by the sound of his voice. a smoky timbre, raw and with the lingering of pain as the air and vibrations draw up throat made raw by expelled saltwater.