Runt [ManxMan]

Chapter One

So tiny warning, wolf's gotta eat, it's a bit messy.

A wolf crouched motionless in the underbrush watching a herd of deer through the trees. His stomach growled and he held his breath, urging it to be quiet; he couldn't afford to scare the herd off again. He'd spent three days tracking them and as a result hadn't eaten in that amount of time.

Not that food had been plentiful before he'd found the herd, otherwise he wouldn't have been desperate enough to risk it. Deer were difficult to hunt in a group, and almost impossible by himself, small and weak as he was, but at this point he would do anything if it meant getting to eat. It had been a difficult winter, and spring was still a long way away.

He set his sights on a young buck near the back of the herd. It was old enough to be arrogant but young enough for the young wolf to have a chance of bringing it down alone, or at least he hoped so. He wasn't experienced with big game, but he was smart and had been taking care of himself for most of his life, so he thought his chances were at least okay.

He crept forward, limping and holding one of his hind legs slightly off the ground. It was an old injury, but it hadn't healed right, and the cold weather always made it worse. Every crunch of his feet through the snow seemed to echo; he was hardly breathing for fear of the sound alerting the herd to his presence.

The wind was in his face, bringing with it the tantalizing scent of the buck and blowing his own scent away from the herd. His feet were light across the ground. Only three more steps. Two. One.

He gathered his legs beneath him, bum leg and all, and sprang forward, launching himself at the unsuspecting deer. It screamed as he drug it to the ground, sending the herd thundering away, abandoning the buck in fear of more wolves, unaware this wolf traveled alone.

His teeth dug into the buck's neck and yanked, ripping its throat out in a spray of blood. The screaming cut off, leaving only an airy wheeze as the buck tried to draw air in through its ruined windpipe. It kicked weakly, trying to push the wolf away with the last of its strength.

It didn't matter; moments later, the young buck's body gave out and slumped to the ground, glassy eyes staring out into the trees.

The wolf released his kill, panting from the exertion. He'd done it! It wasn't his first deer, but it was his first this winter, and first successful hunt in weeks. He'd been surviving off of plants and the occasional fish, which was not a great diet for a wolf.

When he was young he'd survive winters off the half-eaten carcasses abandoned by other lone wolves, and he'd certainly done some scavenging this winter as well, but he needed more than scraps to sustain himself now and had to make his own kills.

He dug his teeth into his kill and started to eat. It was a messy endeavor, and soon his front half was covered in blood. He was aware of another wolf approaching, stalking closer with no attempt at stealth, but he ignored it, too hungry to be bothered with the newcomer.

The other wolf likely just wanted a share of the deer, and the first wolf was not opposed to sharing, especially if it would put the larger, stronger wolf in his debt. There was enough deer to go around, and it wasn't like the young wolf could take the remains of his kill with him.

But the larger wolf growled as he approached, his aura exuding dominance that urged the omega to step down, but he resisted, not moving his muzzle from his kill as he growled back. This was his kill, and he intended to eat his fill.

He was familiar enough with pack customs to know that dominant wolves expected to eat first, and he could tell both from his size—the other wolf was nearly double his size, heavy with muscles and larger than any natural wolf could have gotten—and from the way his instincts were screaming it at him that this wolf was dominant, but they were not pack wolves, and the young omega did not intend to abide by their rules.