Spotted Eagle Mountain This old new sensation

Dry leaves crunch under paw in late spring forests, bones pop under teeth that pull them apart, particularly a little bunny’s skull when it’s tugged from the spine and placed like a fine delicacy at the paws of his guest, floppy ears and all.

“You must be hungry. Eat, visitor. Īrē rā nōfer,” he runs a pink tongue over his dark tresses before catching a hare’s leg with his lips and giving it a heavy bite. The sacred marrow he allows to melt in his mouth, like butter over gums.

“What is your name, traveler?” He asks, with little expectation in hearing it based upon the boy’s silence thus far.

Seth will not mind this. He does not disfavor the quiet.