She has never been a part of the hunts, of the killing, herself. It was beneath her, devolved, in her mind. The savage bloodlust was in her, but there was some major transference. It became bloodlust pent up until someone unleashed a veritable pandora’s box in defiance of her, in offense of her, and other such things. She was beautiful, but her lack of interest in killing did not mean she would not after long enough penting up that natural drive.
This refusal to hunt also meant that there were a great many steps to prepare a kill for her to eat. Lovingly, he had washed the blood from the opened throat. He still was convulsively swallowing the fur down before demanding she ate. “This animal has given his life as an oblation. Who am I to refuse?” She answers. It is a relief at least to know that she would not refuse this meal after the effort it had taken. He would need time to recuperate, anyway. Eating, or not eating. “Tell me, Jarat, why have you killed enough for a small pack? There are plenty of rabbits, squirrels even, that would have been enough to cure our hunger for the time being.”
Here it was, the accusation despite her acknowledging that she needed to eat. His red eyes fix into hers, “Because it will keep. We will be able to eat off this until we find a proper pack. Because next time you would come with me and kill it yourself if I hadn’t gotten big enough prey to save for later.” She is eating a little, but her accusation in her eyes is nothing short of the usual. She hates that he has taken this life - that it didn’t matter what life he took never occurred to her.
Then she is rubbing against him and it drives him to insanity that she sometimes did this to him, that she taunted him. It was the pat on a fleabitten mongrels head, nothing more. A ‘good dog’ from someone of better standing (at least in her own opinion). He lifts his lip only for a moment and when she is done rubbing into him, he shakes himself of the crawling need that winter placed over him. He only is glad his fur is so long.
“I do commend you for cleaning the carcass rather well. We both know blood and fur do not mix well.” His own chin doused with it, his hair stuck askew, hers barely touched, he knows that it will take some more insisting to get her to eat anything further. “You will eat more. We will rest here.” He says, his black and gold marked fur laid into packed-down snow and his forelegs going crossed. “Father never cleaned your mealsl, take advantage of my efforts and stop starving yourself. You are beginning to look like my mother.”
An insult that he is fairly certain will change her mind enough to at least fill herself up. “Are you turning casanova at last, Princess?”
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