Cold.

Though birdsong echoed faintly over the swamp and the reeds were littered with lavender speckles of Water Willow, winter still clung weakly to the lands of Iromar. Desperation frosted the early morning weeds and left thin sheets of ice spotting the black waters. In the shadows of the water banks and crags lived the few rogue snowbanks, biding their time against impending cessation once the sun regained its strength. Despite the healthy yellow glow of the recent weeks, the world was still brittle and frail from the cold of winter. It was a time of struggle and change as the calm of the dark months wrestled against the season of life.

It was colder in the murky water, of course. Chest-deep in the dark swamp, the yearling prince moved slowly through the still water, his breathing slow and predatory murky yellow eyes focused ahead. His narrow body parted the smooth waters with hardly a ripple, the black of his pelt nearly matching the pitch of the water. Ahead, in the dim glow of morning light, motion wriggled around is little streaks as a half dozen baby alligators danced around their mother without a care. She was their protector, a silent sentry around which her young would feed and thrive in safety. She was the reason the young wolf moved with such care.

The young wolf was headed for a particularly naive youth, the one little hatchling which dared to stray several yards from its mother and sibling, so alone and so unaware of the danger gliding toward it in the murky waters this morning.

Locke lowered his body further under the blackened slick, all but his ears, eyes, and nose submerged as he crept through the muddy water. He was close, merely inches away from the little creature's tail, and still the mother made no movement, no notice of the danger which threatened her young. He paused behind the small reptile and braced himself, preparing for the chaos about to ensue.

It was a quick motion; he parted his jaws under the glassy black surface of the water and lunged at the hatchling, taking its neck between his young jaws as it let out a high pitched shriek one would not expect from a reptile. The water was a sudden frenzy of motion and noise, turned white as several things happened all at once. Locke clamped down tightly on his prize as he stood in froth of the turbulent waters and dashed for land in a series of leaps that shattered a lingering sheet of ice. The murky pool was all but turned up as the fast dying hatchling's sentry mother sprang to life with an angry hiss and growl, disappearing into the madness of motion in pursuit of her young's soon to be killer.

Lock's paws met the firmed mud of the half frozen bank and he sprang from the water just in time, the clap trap jaws of the large alligator's jaws just inches behind his tail as he took off into the tall swamp grass. She was hot on his heels for a minute, but soon lost far behind as his long, slim legs made a hasty retreat further into dry, as far as Iromar was concerned, land. Mud and swamp slick shed from his sodden coat as he ran, leaving his body a mess of spiky black fur all but for the slash of deep cinnamon across the left side of his chest and foreleg.

He ran for a few minutes, knowing just how stubborn these alligators could be when they were properly riled, but soon found a decent place to stop. He was maybe a few minutes from home, standing before the bare bones of an alligator on which he and his siblings had wrestled and fought many a time in the last year. Between his jaws, he could feel the heartbeat of the little reptile fading, its cold blood slathering his tongue in a familiar, coppery taste. Locke shook what moisture he could from his damp coat, allowing himself one shiver in the cold morning air. Just one.

The young brute lowered himself down in a relatively dry spot and started in on his prize, eager to get to the heart before its last beat. Capsizing the little creature's body before him on the ground, skillful teeth tore at the softer underside of the hatchling, quickly parting tissue and bones as he hunted for the small, throbbing thing under the ribcage. It was growing weak, limbs seeming to melt around the body as it gave up on staying alive, but Locke wouldn't give it that satisfaction. He would have his trophy, that pulsing life force, that physical incarnation of courage.

And he did.

Weak as it was, the small heart was still beating when his jaws tore it from the still body. He ate it slowly, savoring the thick, spongy resistance of cardiac muscle between his molars with each chew. Only when it was but a mash in his mouth did he swallow, pausing for a moment with his eyes closed lazily in satisfaction before looking down to the mangled body between his front legs. There was little meat to be seen on such a young thing, but he wasn't about to see it go to waste. After all, growing up in Iromar had taught the boy that only a fool let a fresh meal spoil.

Don't turn your back.
Don't look away.
And don't blink.

. l o c k e