Sleepy Fox Hollow heiter

@Anselm was home, and mahler resolved to meet his boy with the same love that had always waited for him.
in his traipsing, he came across the carcass of a great bull elk, settled over with ravens. it was in various stages of decay, and he stopped to explore its scent for infection.
it had been a long time since they had hunted. now he felt these young men were old enough for it.

*yoinks*

A stale scent rose to the air. Anselm recognized it as carrion and tracked its source somewhere deep in the weld. Overhead the coarse croak of ravens sounded.

It took a few attempts before Anselm was on the right track. At first he had swung south, and discovered the scent had dispersed entirely. Turning back on his own footprints, Anselm came across Mahler's and found himself cheating, for it just so happened his father was going the same way.

Likely, for the very same reason.

anselm was along presently. "i have just finished deciding that natural causes took this fellow, not illness." his yellowed ivories wasted no time in ripping along the weakened hide, spilling dark blood.
the ravens cawed and took to wing, though they balefully settled not far away. "how vere your travels?"

Mahler declared the elk's demise came naturally. He bent to tear at a frozen segment of hind; behind him, a score of ravens took flight with scornful caws.

Anselm watched their flight to a nearby tree. He could not sense anything from this carcass, save that it had been dead some time. He sniffed carefully at a listless patch of fur. My travels were okay, but I think I'm better off home. How can you tell how it died, papa?

mahler grunted. "you know i feel the same, anselm," he said, both jesting and genuine. "you smell the dead smell, right? vell, under it, if this animal had died of an infection that might infect us, you vould smell something sharper. newer."
he pointed to the worn down molars in the picked skull. "see here? it grew too old to eat. it starved and grew veak, and died here."

Anselm smiled at Mahler's fatherly jest; he was right, as he usually was.

As far as the dead elk went, it took time for Anselm to sift through the particles of scent that hit his nose. He tilted his head upwards, glistening nose taking in great big sniffs of the cold air.

At last he could parse the scent of cold snow, decay, and elk from one another. He studied the molars with a frown. It had never occurred to him to look at teeth to guess something's age. Here the dark molars were capped with earthy colored crowns - along their hooked ridges were caps and deposits of tartar. He wondered what his own teeth looked like - what about Mahler's? Were they as darkened and twisted as this old elk's?

Does that work for everything? Could I tell your age if I looked at your teeth, papa?

the man let out an amused guffaw. "indeed you could, anselm!" mahler hooted with a great laugh. "you can see i am old," and here he opened his sharp maw to show his son the yellowed ivories with their coating, the way that two of them throbbed red at the root, the broken molar he had sustained somewhere.
"so you see, it is the same," mahler chuffed. "but do not take my age for veakness," he jested.

Anselm peered deep at those teeth. Yellow rounded their roots, and in some places the edges were dull and shorn away. Two sunk into a gumline that was red, inflamed with a disease that Anselm could smell tint the air in acridity.

He wished he could see his own teeth. Anselm resolved to look upon his reflection in the water later. Little Narcissus, pulling at his gums so he might see every pointy pearly-white.

It was inconceivable to Anselm to think Mahler weak. How old are you, papa? Anselm sniffed at the elk once more. He was not yet hungry, but perhaps after watching Mahler eat his appetite might be roused.

mahler laughed at that, for it was not often a question asked. he looked at little anselm and his pearly teeth flashing in question; not so little now, his sons. he thought of isa and sobered.
"ich lebe seit sieben jahren," mahler said at last, reaching to ruffle anselm's ears. "and if i am blessed, i vill see another four."
the advisor stepped now, to cut into the chest of the elk.

It was then Anselm learned indirectly of a wolf’s life expectancy. He grinned as his papa ruffled his ears, but as Mahler tore into the elk his smile faded away. 

Seven years to a wolf barely on the cusp of his first seemed an immeasurable amount of time. He was silent as Mahler chewed. He would be nearly five when Mahler was eleven; this seemed impossibly ancient. 

Anselm waited for his father to eat by testing the air. Around scents of decay he could smell other things; cold snow, water in the distance. Occasionally he thought he scented rats. When Mahler had finished Anselm ate his own fill, but remained uncharacteristically quiet.

mahler filled his belly and rejoined his son, wondering idly what weighed upon the boy. or perhaps not so idly, as he studied the strong profile of the younger wolf. "penny for your thoughts, anselm?" mahler chuckled gently, cleaning the blood from one hard paw.
his stoneflower eyes lifted again to the boy.

Anselm finished eating, drawing himself into a pensive fold as he looked in his father's general direction. He was the captain -- wherever he went, they would follow. He was taken aback by the question.

He would not lie. You are seven times my age, Papa. Anselm answered reflectively. Will I be seven when I have puppies? If I even have them?

mahler laughed. "vhen you are two years of age you vill be able to become a father." what an odd thought! "every year after that as vell."
his eyes twinkled with mischief. "are you intrigued by that, anselm?" he chuffed with a grin.

Anselm balked at the prospect. Being a dad sounded insufferably old — surely he would never reach that point!

He chewed on a stick in thought. Hmm. Do I have to? Maybe Emmerich can be a dad instead. I want to explore! Young as he was, he recognized having children served as an invisible tether — Anselm was not ready to forfeit his life just yet.

mahler laughed, a low, rolling sound. "vhy not." he stood and stretched, shook out his ruff, clacked his jaws.
"zeig mir, wie schnell du läufst," the man suggested conversationally before he lunged away and up the nearby slope!
an old man needed a head start, mahler reasoned.

Grits of the stick lined Anselm's jaws. He licked his chops thoughtfully -- why not indeed?

Any hope of contemplation was dashed as his dad frisked up the slope, challenging the boy to a race thinly veiled as a run. Anselm roared to see his father had fleeced him -- already he was half up the slope, with a big headstart!

The stick clattered to the ground as Anselm charged after Mahler's receding form.