He heard the muffled bark, turning to look where the sound had come from, though he knew at least it was one of his own kind. Only his bretheren spoke in a distinctive way that he could understand, the rest of the forest just offering chatter, white noise. Fritjof was not sure what to make of this dark creature, carrying a weasel towards him. She was much larger than him, and obviously from a pack based on her confidence, demeanor and well kept look. Not that he was horribly shabby. And he would never be a large wolf, thin long muscles making him a strong runner but lacking in the pure ferocious strength of bulk. His ears swivel, trying to determine the best course as she is laying the food down in front of her. His instincts scream take it, one never knows where the next meal is coming from when one is on their own. But his pride is stung. Taking handouts is nothing he has ever done.
Obviously the female had been in several successful fights. Fritjof counted anything one could walk away from a successful fight. His fur had grown back, where his legs had been grabbed, leaving only white fur to mark them, and even that blended too well into his already mottled coat. He stays where he is, still a bit distant. He is going to let pride rule out, but his survival instinct took hold and seized the bloody carcass. Even a good hunter will be a scavenger when the need arises. He remembers the strange female, still standing there, had spoken, and it would be polite to reply. He reluctantly drops it at his feet for now.
Thank you. Someday, I will return the favor. He means it. He has never had a debt before, especially not one he could so ill repay, since as a loner he did not have power or prestige, nor an easy way to come up with game or information in return. My name is Fritjof, should you ever need it. May I ask your name? he continues politely. No need to make enemies with someone so obviously useful. He was low on Maslow's pyramid (if he had any idea what that was), so needed every anchor he could cling to in a storm, however weak.
His answers pending, he lay down, front legs surrounding the meat, to gnaw on the prize not won by his own jaws. He swallows his pride with each bite, reminding himself strength and living is key, not this notion of being independent. Because really, what wolf wanted to be independent, even if they could be? He still watched the dark wolf, ears turning to tell him of other threats around him, though he is sure she will react if something were suddenly looming over him, so for once he could spend a meal not looking over his shoulder every two minutes, waiting for the approaching doom. When the last of the weasel is gone (within less than 5 minutes), and only the undigestible bits such as the gall bladder are left, he sits, licking blood of muzzle and paws, like a gruesome dessert. |