Snow, the twigs and frozen brush buried inches below crunch beneath your paws, shoot biting cold between your eighteen keratin-tipped toes, up through your long leg bones. You lift your snout, sniff the wind, catch the faintest whiff of sheep’s blood, so sweet, listen for the voices of your kin. There is only silence and flurries of white that threaten to steal the scent from your nostrils. Blood. Your stomach growls louder than you ever could. You sniff, strain, stride through the deepening powder that stands between you and your quarry. Blood. The wind batters your pelt with shards, obscures your vision. Still, you do not let go. Blood. You trudge faster, begin to sprint across the waste toward the edge of a forest. Blood. The closer you get, the louder your stomach cries out. Then, amidst the roots of a pine, you find it, half buried, coated in ice. Blood.
You dig, reveal your prize, roughly the same size as the last meal you devoured, begin to bite the ice that encases it, taste it fully. Blood. You lick, lap it up, chomp at the block in search of the meat beneath it all. Blood. The wind carries the voices of your kin. Blood. You bite faster, determined to eat your fill. Blood. Your mouth goes numb from the cold. Blood. There is a pinch along the bottom of your tongue as you lick, the most distant of pains, followed by another. To your delight, waves of warmth pour forth and begin to melt your prey’s frigid form. Blood! It splashes upon your paws. Unknown chunks fall from your mouth. You eat those too. The voices grow closer.
The more you eat, the hungrier you become, so much so that you can barely stand. Your left forelimb buckles. You collapse into a pool of scarlet mixed with thawing slush, continue to bite, eager to reach the heart of your find before the others arrive. A single bone juts from the carnage and glints in the light of day, so much like the claws swung by the uprights who have always wished for you to starve. Confusion creeps in as the heat returns feeling to the pulp that once was your tongue and you taste something entirely unlike sheep. The flurries of white begin to turn black and exhaustion replaces ferocity. Your kin emerge from the forest, their hungry eyes focused not on the glinting bone, but on you, fangs borne. You try to stand, manage only a gargled whimper. The biting cold seeps in as the voices on the wind descend upon you.