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Theres a cool mist that floats under the northern sky, suffocates a cabin, hides in the woods. January chill frosting over the grass and biting at the noses and ankles of deer and wolf alike.
The deer would weep at the hands of nature, crude circle of life eating at their rotten carcasses, sharp canines biting into flesh.
The sun seemed to hide this time of year, dim behind the thick shrill of winter, when everyting seemed to glow teal. Trees bare and dead, gangly limbs sharp and protruding. Collarbones and bumpy ribs attempting to crawl out of tightly drawn skin.
"You scared?"
Øystein's nails dug themselfs into his palm, leaving little crescent moons in their wake. His jaw was painfully clenched and breath heavy in his lungs, lips pressed tight as he kept his eyes knitted with Pelle's, shirt sticking to his back where it's pressed against the wall.
His throat audibly clicks, words sticky and faint on his tounge, "no."
"Really?" Pelle drawls out tauntingly, corner of his mouth curled up in a more sadistic than joyful way.
The metal Pelle had pressed to his neck dug in to his flesh pitifully, not cutting him, but just enough pressure that his next swallow would be lined with rocks.
And with a twist of a wrist the knife is flipped, dull side facing him, the tip of it scrapping against his throat when it's dragged down, then backtracking on it's trail. Øystein must lift his chin when the blade is pressed under it, tilting his head up to look up at the other.
A hand is raised to his throat, fingers prodding at his cardioid, the thin flesh dipping under them as they feel each mantra of blood thumping through veins. Bowing his head with a satisfied smirk, face so close to his they were practically suffocating in eachothers carbon, "your heart says otherwise."
Øystein just stares, like a wounded prey animal. Pelle must snicker at him when he takes the knife off his throat, the other huffing a relieved sigh. It's immediately sucked back in when the blade returns, but this time to his thigh. A coarse noise dousing the thick air when it's dragged against his jeans, slowly inching itself to his crotch. When it reaches it's goal he traces the tip of it up the middle seam of his jeans, the fabric and flesh underneath denting when he presses the flat side against him.
Øystein's hands scrape against the wall, slowly heaving through his nose, eyes fixated on the knife on him. Ribs tight where they jump under skin, wetting dry lips as he tries to melt himself into the wall.
The thick air is cleft in two when Pelle starts to mouth under his jaw, sighing as he raises a hand to tangle in the others shirt.
"'M not gonna hurt you," Pelle murmurs into the side of his face, cupping his head and stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. Then resting his forearm above them, shading them from any intruding light. Øystein's eyes sqeeze shut, unconvinced of his coos.
His eyes fall back open, following when the metal is dragged up his middle, hot breath tickling his neck as it bumps along the metal studs on his belt, dragging it up until the hem of his sweater catches on it. His breath hitches when the tip of the blade scrapes against his happy trail, pulling his sweater up with it until he reaches his navel.
Pelle sucks a bruise under his jaw, the receptor too preoccupied with the knife pointed toward his gut to pester him for leaving marks where people could see. Heat spreading through his core, with nerves or arousal, he couldn't tell. Such confusing times.
His head lightens when the knife is tucked away, pressing flat against his side when Pelle holds him, gangly knuckles digging into his stomach -- better than the knife at least. He noses at his cheek in a silent ask, Pelle sighs into his jaw then slides his lips to his, noses flattening as he roughly kisses him, sliding his hands down his hold his hips, roughly pulling them against his own.
The sun cowards through the fog, wolfish stalking though shrubbery and weeds, toeing over rocks and bugs. Stalking the deer that dips it's snout in the river, kicking holes in the ice, salmon and cod writhing underneath. Hawks prey what it cannot reach.
So unknowing of the sharp eyes that peer, that wait. Trees shaking in the vivid wind, breeze rattling the leaves, what little gold that peeks out from the fog strobe on coarse chestnut fur. Bloodied in a single fell swoop.
Red would snake through water, melt the ice. Teeth would pull through flesh, gnaw on chewy intestines, nip at the necks and pull on lips.
Subtle sighs would sweep dust under the carpet of his skull, bubble the molten acid that pooled in his stomach. Soft mouthing at blushy lips harshening and reddening with each kiss. Tounges slipping, entwined, picking the berries off of the thorned vines, sucking the juices from their carcasses and painting with their skin.
Claws grip at his shirt collar, sharp metal glinting under the prosthetic light when it's pushed against his throat again. Øystein's hands whip up from their place on his hips, palms facing outward in surrender. Grunting when he is tugged from the wall, Pelle's expression unreadable, hints of satisfaction hidden under stern flatness, pushing him backwards until his ass dents from the kitchen table pushing into it. Hands gripping the edge of the wood in a vice lock to keep them from shaking.
His spit feels thick when it slides down his throat, breath sitting deep in his lungs in fear that even the slightest movement of his neck would offset the knife. Dick shamefully twitching in his jeans when Pelle looms above him, not blinking, not moving, just staring, like he was worming his way right into his very fucking soul. Sweat sticks his hair to his face while he tries not to squirm under his gaze, attempting to hold it but quickly fails, eyes shifting anywhere but his face.
Pelle's face splits in a mocking grin, "whats wrong? Am I making you nervous?"
Øystein has the audacity to scoff, even at a time like this, "the fuck do you think?" He tended to get mouthy when he felt threatened. It wasn't his best trait by any means.
A sharp clack hits his ears before a burning sting pricks at his cheek, mouth agape in shock. "Don't get smart with me. Do you forget that I have a knife? I could kill you if I wanted." Pelle sneers, squishing his cheeks between tight fingers, his mouth making a kissy fish shape. Dick twitching and throat pushing out a hollow laugh when Øystein sighs a whimper.
He'd looked so sweet, so scared, like he was just about ready to cry, or even soil his pants for that matter, it invokes an honest to god coo out of him.
"So cute like this." If not for the ringing that lingered, bouncing in his skull, then it was the blood rushing in his head that make Pelle's words barley audible.
Pelle takes the knife away, replacing it with a gentle hand, letting worry lightly seep through his stern facade, thumb stroking his jaw while he inspects his face. Gaze flicking to his eyes then kissing his cheek in a silent apology. Øystein turns his head to try and catch his lips, missing by a hair and kissing the corner of his mouth. Pelle's eyebrows lighten, faint smile pulling his lips, takeing pity on his other, opting to help him marring his lips against his.
Large hands cup his head, holding him tight against him, suffocating in eachother. Noses flattening, chapped lips sliding against smooth ones. Sucking Øystein's bottom lip into his mouth, soothing it with his tounge when he groans and turns his head when blood starts to pool to the surface.
Øystein feels more comfortable when Pelle sets the switchblade aside, melting into his touch when he drags his hands down his sides, hands dipping with the subtle curve of his waist. Trailing them until he reaches his ass, muttering a command for him to jump, holding onto his waist to help slide him on the table.
Bodies weld together like water clashing in midair, Øystein's lips parted with a pant as he presses open mouthed kisses down his chin, jaw, stopping to suck bruises when they meet his neck, biting when it's been too long since Øystein had last made a noise, blonde scruff scratchy against him.
Paws dig into the flesh of prey, holding the carcass down as it pulls flesh from bone. The weeps and cries of agony had soon faded, glinting sun hiding from sight. Bashing eyes away from mother's whims. Trees would gracefully dance in honor of sacrifice, screams of birds feeding the ears of danger.
Kisses trail their way down, licking into the hollow where neck meets the connecting of collarbones, hands grabbing any bit of soft flesh the can find, reigning terrors of bruising petals into his skin. Wrist catching on the hem of his sweater, pushing it up when he slides his palm up his chest, holding onto his shoulder when he reaches it to keep his torso exposed. The cold air nipping at his skin heightened embarrassment, slight heat pricking his cheeks.
Pelle distracts him with a kiss, subtly grabbing the neglected blade then in one quick move pulling away and points it at him. Lip quirking up when Øystein's breath hitches, hands tightening on the edge of the table. The metal is cold on his skin when it's brushed up his sternum, flinching when it's pressed against his nipple and then dragged around it, then again to the other.
His hands leave his body, one resting beside his thigh the other tapping the knife against his crotch, muttering a command for him to take his sweater off. Øystein's hands shaky when he obeys, pulling the back of his collar up and sliding the thick cotton over his head, throwing it beside them, soft material unintentionally sliding off the table onto the floor. He wants to cover himself, never one to be shy about his body but Pelle's eyes burned holes into his skin, heat bubbling up his spine and reddening his cheeks. Lips pressing together when Pelle lets a hand run down his side, soft skin like silk between his fingers.
It's a familiar feeling, sharp metal against his neck, nerves bubbling in his stomach, but just because it's familiar doesn't mean it's comfortable. The hand feeling his dick above his jeans provide a nice distractor though, parting his thighs subconsciously to give him more room to prod at, eyes fluttering shut and sticky lips parting with a sigh. He'd gone untouched for so uncomfortably long, it felt so nice to finally have the strain soothed, even if it was just by a smidge.
"Take your belt off," Pelle says, not wanting to take the blade away from his neck to do it himself. Øystein obliges with a sigh, his head tilted up made it an awkward task, not able to look down and see where his hands were. He manages though, reaching behind him to undo his belt and bulling it out of the hoops. He'd liked to turn his belts around so that the studs would show when he tucked the front of his shirt into his jeans.
The belt is tossed to the side, and like his sweater it slides off the table, but this time with a sharp clank. Pelle's hand is back on him, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans with one hand was not easy but he manages, rewarded with a sigh when he snakes his hand into his pants to grope him through his boxers, squeezing the outline of his cock. Øystein's hands move from the edge of the table to rest beside him, leaning back slightly and closing his eyes to better enjoy the sensation. For someone with a knife to his throat he does seem oddly relaxed.
Pelle pulls his hands away to card his fingers in the waistband of his pants, tugging his boxers and jeans down in one go with a little help from the raise of Øystein's hips. They rest at his ankles, catching on the top of his heeled boots. A girly shoe that Pelle held his teases for, too focused on how well they paired with his legs, how well they made his ass look.
Palms push at his inner thighs, spreading them as much as they could go with his jeans still on. He presses his lips to his while he kneads them, leaving his dick untouched and needy. Thumbs run up the soft jut of hipbones, over each little bumb in his ribs, and running over the slight fat of his chest. Øystein's back arches up into his touch when Pelle's tounge slides with his, when his nipples are pinched and played with.
A hand slides up to blonde hair, fingers tangling in his curls, "Pelle--" he muffles a grunt when his nipples are twisted, fucker he thinks. "Pelle, c'mon," he sighs.
Pelle breaths into his cheek, voice low and smooth, "what do you want?"
Øystein has to hide his huff, he always does this. "Touch me, please." He's glad Pelle obliges without any more prodding, a rarity. Suspicious but he's cut from all thought when Pelle brushes his knuckles over his shaft, pleasntly sighing.
"Don't get too comfortable," Pelle grumbles, knife swiftly coming back up to his throat. The pressure on his throat has become oddly pleasant, he's sure he feels the exact opposite of what Pelle wants of him. His eyebrows curl when his hand wraps around him, metling into his touch when he starts to move. Holding him in a firm -- but not tight -- grip, big palm engulfing him, sharp eyes intently watching his face. He couldn't see it but he could feel it.
His eyes fall back open when the knife is taken from his neck, making a confused noise. Eyes widening in horror when Pelle moves the blade to his dick. Doing everything in his power to try not to squirm when the sharp end is tapped against the side of his shaft. He must look utterly stupid for the way Pelle laughs, "told you to not get too comfortable. You did this to yourself."
The dull end of the switchblade is run along the underside of his shaft, dragging it up until it reaches his head, Øystein couldn't deny that it felt nice, the cold metal a pleasnt contrast to the heat of his middle, but Pelle was absolutely unpredictable, and that made him nervous. Back rigid and white-knuckling the table, lips pressed tight, breath jaged in his lungs.
He has to remind himself to breathe when Pelle slowly drags it up the side of his head, fingers circling his base to hold him steady while he slides the blunt edge along his slit. Øystein must sigh at the feeling, but it doesn't help ease his thoughts of how a quick flip on the wrist and he could split him right in half. He assumes that's why Pelle did it, keep him weary and on his toes.
A thumb comes up to take place of the knife, rewarded a sweet moan when he starts rubbing along his slit. Pelle presses a kiss to his lips, sucking up his noises when he strokes his shaft. Pulling away from his lips so he could peer down at his hand, moving the knife to his base while continuing to jerk him.
"I could cut your dick off right now." Pelle jokes, laughing at how Øystein looks up to him in absolute terror, like he thinks he's actually going to do it. "Don't look so scared, I was just joking," He says through a laugh. Øystein has to clench his jaw to bite back a snarky comment.
Pelle apologies by kissing his cheek and taking the knife away, smiling into him when he feels Øystein's body lighten, kissing the corner of his mouth when he sighs. A hand comes up to Pelle's hip, holding onto it as if he's trying to ground himself, the molten knot in his stomach tightening a little too much.
He tightens his grip in his shirt, thighs tightening when he notifys Pelle of his current state in a high sigh.
"Already? You're so sensitive," he teases, but pulls his hand away nonetheless, Øystein too pent up to argue with him. Groaning when he garners the darkening marks on his neck with his tounge and lips. Sensitive skin tingling so wonderfully, Øystein's cock jolting with it, and again when Pelle gropes himself through his jeans and groans into his neck.
"Take me out of my pants," Pelle whispers, grabbing onto his soft waist. Øystein nods eagerly, thumbs fumble with his belt, sighing when his neck is sucked on as he unzips his jeans.
Fingers twitch against his thighs, ruffled tartan rough against his palms. He looks up to him in a silent ask of permission, he is given it with a gentle go on and a hand brushing his hair from his face, cupping it after. Pelle smiles at him when Øystein's lips press together he pulls his waistband down, heavy cock springing out.
Lips press against his, the hand on his jaw pulling his face to his, then running it down to hold onto his neck. Øystein grunts when his lower lip is bitten and pulled on. Pelle's hand is so much bigger than his, he realizes, his hand practically engulfs his when he drags it to his cock. Pelle was just big in genral, his hand barely fitting around his dick when he's forced to grasp it, looming above him while he holds Øystein's hand in his own, leering down at him while he makes him stroke him.
He pulls his hands off him, holding them in his own, tumbs rubbing at the raven's palms as he kisses him again. "Turn around and lay on the table," Pelle says, nothing was ever a plea with him, always a command. Pelle was his dictator, never would he disobey, never could he find the will to say no to him. And that's why when Pelle asked to put a knife to his throat while he fucked him he was met with no resistance, just a breathy sigh of compliance.
Pelle steps back a bit to allow his other room to slide off the table, Øystein's heels clicking against the hardwood, he takes the opportunity to kick them off then slide his jeans down the rest of the way. He realizes now how much of a contrast they have with eachother, so exposed compared to Pelle. He feels a wave of self-consciousness fall over his eyes hands coming to nervously entwine in front of him, shifting his eyes away.
His hands are pulled away, Pelle murmuring something about how pretty he is to help with his coyness, kissing him and pushing his hips against his, dicks mirroring their lips. "Turn." Pelle rasps between a kiss, sqeezing his waist.
Hands pull and prod at his ass before his stomach can even hit the table, his spine burning when Pelle runs his palm up it, pushing him flat against the table between his shoulder blades. His feet barely scrape the ground, resting his pink cheek on his palms while he lets Pelle paw at him. Like he was just some toy, a prey animal that gave up fighting.
He could feel his dick pushing against his ass, weeping tip sticky against him as he kneeds his cheeks and spreads him, he could hear his breath hitch when his hole winked from the pull. Pelle presses a thumb to it, his other hand keeping him spread as he rubs it in circles. Idly fondling his balls while he pushes a dry finger inside him, keeping it down to the knuckle while he runs the pad of his finger along his velvety walls. The friction that the dryness holds pleasntly burned as he began slowly thrusting it inside him.
Pelle takes his hand away for a moment to grab the lube, squirting a thick glob onto his inner two fingers then rubbing it over his rim, shiny under the fading aroma of sun. He runs his hand over his back to soothe as he pushes the two fingers in, savoring the way he jolts and sighs. Leaning over him, forearm holding up his weight as he fucks him on his fingers.
His dick pokes at his thigh, hot and hard and so fucking ready, taunting him of his little noises that he tried desperately to choke down. Pelle is practiced, he knows him all too well, it doesn't take much prodding around for him find that little bundle of nerves that send shocks up his spine and through the hollow of his cock. He whines when he roughly and repeatedly pushes down on his prostate, back arching and hands clawing at the table.
Pelle thinks he is so sweet, murmuring loving coos of how well he's doing, and degrading spats of how much of a whore he sounds, beaming beside his ear, mouthing at his neck. Grinding his cock against the plush of his ass as he brushes his hair off his shoulder to press kisses to the bone. Øystein groans and his hips sputter when Pelle spreads his fingers inside him, then slipping in another beside the two.
Rapidly picking up the pace when he feels Øystein relax beneath him, his rim loosening with the crude intrusion. "Taking my fingers so well, think you can take a bit more? Want my cock in you?" Pelle pants, seeming just as impatient and hungry as the raven.
Øystein's eyes sqeeze shut at his lewdness, rasping a whiny "yeah."
"Yeah? Say it." He seethes, harshly pushing down on his nerves again and again -- it made it hard to speak, or form any coherent thoughs at that. Øystein tries, he tries so hard to speak, to obey his words but they fall of his tounge, he can't do much more than pant and whine, fucking himself back on his fingers.
"Poor thing, can't even talk can you? Crying like a bitch and I haven't even put my dick in you yet." Pelle laughs, mocking as it is dazing.
His head swoons when Pelle lifts off him and tugs at his rim, testing it. "Hmm, I think you might be good, yeah?"
Øystein finds his voice again, raising his ass to him and sighing a yes.
"Yeah? You want it?"
"Yes, yeah. Fuck me," Øystein sighs.
Pelle pokes his tip at his hole but doesn't push it in, resting his hands on his hips. He knows Øystein knows what he wants to hear.
"Fuck me, Pelle, please, need it."
Pelle's lip curls up, mocking him, taunting him, "yeah? You need it?" Øystein whines, frustrated as he is needy, "Pelle,"
"Fine, fine, alright." He laughs, deciding to stop teasing him -- as cute as his pleas were. He slicks up his length and sqeezes out a short line over his rim, rubbing it in as he strokes himself. "Pelle, c'mon," Øystein sighs pathetically.
A hand grabs one of his thighs, pulling it up to rest on the table, blushy dick hanging off the edge, leaking precome onto the floor. Pelle always thought it was cute how he got wet like a girl.
Øystein myst hold onto the edge of the table when Pelle pushes the head of his dick in, he was so thick it hurt. Streched so embarrassingly wide around him, Pelle has to hold him down by his neck and lower back to keep him from squirming. His little guts not meant to take something so big, tears starting to prick at his eyes as his rim slides up the thickest part of his shaft.
"Fuck, you're so tight," Pelle groans. It felt like he was vacuum sealed to his dick, pressing his dry lips together when Øystein cries out a pained grunt. "You poor thing, is it too much?" Pelle asks in mock sympathy, grinning when Øystein whines an mhm.
"Mm that's too bad," Pelle sighs, crossing his arms to hold onto his hip and push his back down as he thrusts as rest of the way in with one leisure thrust. Well, almost the rest of the way, his cock head was pushing up against the end of his rectum, right before it curves into intestine, but there was still a good two inches left out. It was wildly arousing.
Øystein sobs, clawing at the table, leaving little marks no doubt. He felt so remarkably full his head swooned with it, so heavy it felt like it was going to fall off his neck and roll onto the floor. Pelle leans over him, gabbing onto his chin and janking it up, exposing his pale neck, nipping at it when Øystein groans.
It's hard for Pelle to refrain from rutting into him but he holds off until his raven says it's okay for him to move. Even through their little games he would never dare to hurt him in such a way.
Øystein moans a sob when Pelle starts to rock his hips, barely pulling out, he was practically just grinding against him. His shaft scrapping against his prostate with each little thrust, burried so deep he never wanted him to leave.
The sun has settled now, leaving light up to the dim glow of the overhead, deep shadow casted over their faces. Pelle turns his head into his others frizzy hair, breathing in nothing but him as he slides his arms under Øystein's. Wrists brushing against the thin hair of his armpits as he holds onto his shoulders.
This time instead of rutting he pulls his dick out until just the head resides inside, then snapping his hips back into him. Repeatedly hitting the little bundle of nerves inside him that made him cry so wonderfully. He despises the moments Pelle is gone, lifed off of him so he could pull his shirt off, but savors in the way his skin sticks to his when he presses his stomach against his back. His warmth was his own, like they had melded together to become one.
Øystein is so lost in him, drowning in his aura he doesn't even notice one of Pelle's hands leaving him to grab the knife again. However, he does notice when it's pressed against his neck, a startled gasp leaving him, flinching back onto his cock.
"Øystein," Pelle drawls out tauntingly, enjoyment leaking though, grinning by his ear, "you cum before I do and I'll fucking kill you. Understand?" Heat pooled in his belly at his words, whimpering and clenching around him, Pelle must've felt it too for the way he laughs at him.
He doesn't know how Pelle expects him not to come -- his dick streching him so wide, pushing against his prostate with every thrust, the pressure of the knife against his neck that he's come to adore all so much, Pelle's deep throaty groans right beside his ear -- it was all so much, even now he could pitifully feel his stomach tightening, he was so pent up, so ready, so needy. Pelle had to have known what he was doing to him for fucks sake.
"Uhn, Pelle, please I can't--"
His face curls up when Pelle presses the knife harder into him, thrusting into him harder, deeper, seething: "I'll fucking kill you if you cum now, don't you fucking dare." Laughing when Øystein moans, hacking up to spit a thick glob of saliva onto his face. Øystein grimaces when he feels it run down his cheek, but he can't deny the way his cock jolts with it, to be degraded to such a point, christ it was so wildly arousing.
He arches his back in time with Pelle's hand when he runs it down him, fingers dipping with the dimples on his lower back that he thinks are so cute, finding settlement on his waist. Grip bruising as he fucks into him with such animalistic innent, coughing up sobs and moans in time with his thrusts. His eyes widen when he feels the snap of the knot in his belly, pushing his ass up into him and crying out.
Pelle rips himself off of him, taking a step back to watch his other lift his hips off of the table, thighs shaking and hole winking. Back arching so obscenely and cock pulsating as he shoots thick wads of the cum on the floor, whining at the emptyness he feels without Pelle inside him.
"You're gonna regret that," he hears Pelle spit behind him.
He already does.
He sobs when Pelle sheaths himself back in him in one go, yanking his hips off the table and pounding into him so hard the table scrapes against the floor.
Pelle's head lolls back, keeping his eyes fixated where they're connected. He had such a wonderful sight, his others rim painfully streched around him, reddening with use, Øystein clawing at the table, kicking his feet as they hung in the air.
Øystein felt so used, so throughly fucked, he couldn't even make nosie anymore, just whiny pants as his insides are mercilessly overstimulated and abused. Being manhandled to such an extent made his head swoon atrociously, he couldn't even do anything but just take it. Groaning when he is pushed back onto the table, crying out when his head is yanked back by his hair, whining when the knife is put back to his throat.
"Beg for your life. Beg for me not to kill you." Pelle coos beside his ear, his tone so sweet in contrast to his harsh words he almost couldn't believe it.
"'M sorry-- uhn, fuck-- I'm sorry, please don't kill me. I-- ah fuck, I didn't mean to cum before you, I didn't mean it, please, please don't kill me," he slurs, whining, head to heavy to form coherent sentences. He feels Pelle cock pulse inside him. Sick fuck.
He could feel his breath on his neck when he laughs through a moan, "so sweet."
His pleads seem to please him enough though, as he pulls the blade from his throat and stabs it into the wood of the table. Øystein gasps, startled at the sudden noise, jolting back away from it -- and in turn, pushing himself deeper onto Pelle's cock, taking him to the hilt. His eyebrows raise and his body shudders, he'd never had something so deep before, he could feel him bumping against his belly.
Pelle groans, curling an arm around his throat and another under his others arm. Holding him tight as he comes deep inside him, body shaking with it. Panting a curse when Øystein follows, adding more to the puddle under the table. Pelle's eyes roll back when he feels his insides flutter around him, his back arching to try and take him deeper, shuddering when Pelle pulls out and presses lazy kisses to his shoulders.
"You did so good my raven. Thank you." He sighs after a while.
"Raven?" Øystein slurs, smiling.
Pelle hums.
"I like that."
The moon glares down at them through a thicket of trees.
There is bone marrow on the wolf's teeth, pink gums dripping a fluttery red. Liqid so dark it was almost black, blue bubbling deep, colors changing as it melted with the open air.
Oxygen would reek terror to blood, wringing it dry if left out to long. Rendering it to nothing but molten lava cracks -- fire burned homes, reduced to flakey ash in a single spark.
There were hawks pecking at the ice. It's a massacre, the wolf had stolen the deers skin and eaten it's soul. Vultures scavenge for remains but there are none, the wolf has merged with the deer.
The deer that prey, the wolf that waits. One as none, forever as one.