Cannibalism was a trait he had been born into and had yet to stop the habit, call the elixir of life perhaps because it had kept him alive this long. Sure, there were other things he had eaten during his life, but the flesh of his own kind was better than all the others.

He wasn’t a fool though, he’d not attack if he thought the other wolf was stronger; he’d learned his lesson long ago. Nirvana knew he was old and blind, knew that he had a limp in one leg. All the scars along his body evidence of his past wars and all those creatures he had taken down along his way for no particular reason - he’d murdered his mother, after all.

Nirvana had not been one to speak very much either, he had not seen any use in conversation and even now it seems pointless. The wolf watches her outline as it comes closer, sneaks along under the trees; she watches him with alert ears and a cautious stance. When she yips at him, Nirvana simply stretches his front paws out, arching his hind end as he yawns lazily; flopping down on the forest floor. He has never been afraid, not once.

Dying was, well, redundant.

“Have any idea where some goose eggs might be?” He finally says after a moment, Nirvana looks at her fleetingly, passing his one blue eye over her for no reason.