[ ᨒ ] The Aftermath of Genesis

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strong language

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His body was failing. Rotting away from the inside out. Like his stomach had grown teeth and blindly ate and ripped at whatever was nearest. Flesh and muscle like paper mache on bone. Mouth and throat dry as dust. His brain rattled about in his skull, desperate to find a better body to survive in.

Darkness crept in around the edges of his vision and held him like the mother he wished he had. He thought of his sister, dead, dying, or worse. Or tried to. There was not an ounce of concentration left.

But he really meant to. Tried to. Think about her. One last thought.

His consciousness withered away like the husk his corpse had become.

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Remort blinked and found himself standing in the shade of a tree. Legs splayed like a foal that had finally found its feet. Shaky, too.

He was so fucking hungry.

The organ growled restlessly and the shadow was spurred onward. Feverishly, his freckled nose worked. There was the scent of wolves—off-putting, but he had bigger fish to fry (at least, he hoped he would)—and then, finally, venison. Spider-like, he crept quickly along after the scent.

Eventually, the strong, fresh scent of a wolf nearby hit him like a truck and he faltered. He bit his tongue; ears pinned to his skull before flicking up to listen around. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing. He was weak and hungry. A hunting partner was likely just what he needed.

That was how hungry he was—optimism slipped in like a mistress. Nearly every wolf Remort met was a fucking asshole.

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It was the pronghorn he laid eyes on before the other wolf. His heart sank. He had hoped for some crippled doe that would have been thankful to be hunted down and put out of its misery. Not a healthy buck. His hunting skills were mediocre at best thanks to his piss-poor parents. Alas, Remort hadn't the luxury to be picky.

His heart began to gallop in his chest, breath held captive in his lungs. Teeth barred in anticipation. Tunnel vision settled in, either out of concentration or malnourishment.

The other wolf was completely forgotten. Venison dominated his mind. The amateur hunter shot out from the undergrowth, across the distance between him and the buck. Frosted gold eyes were affixed to the pronghorn's soft underbelly. His jaws were parted, prepared to bite, but nerves got the better of him and he hesitated.

Soil was kicked up as the pronghorn turned and ran. Remort's teeth snapped on air. Determined—desperate, rather, the shadow sprinted after it.

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thnx :3 he needs the practice x3

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