Dezember knelt by the body in the ditch, running her claws along the gnome’s pallid, quickly-cooling face. He was still alive – but just barely. She’d watched from her perch on the nearby cliff as he’d foolishly attempted to cross towards the farmhouse. The worgen had made quick work of him, tearing out his throat and effectively skewering him on a fence post before discarding of him where he lay now, breathing infrequent, rattling death-breaths.
They were wasteful, the worgen.
Not she. As soon as they had disappeared back through the misty field of trees, she’d silently climbed down and scampered to the prone body lying in the ditch.
His eyes wandered wildly, now dull, now sharp and alarmed, but when he saw her, she could see the revulsion and fear in his dying expression. In her past life, she might have felt pity for little man, might even have tried to save him.
But, she mused as she spread the wound on his neck wider and lowered her head to feed, that was all over now. She was hungry, and pity would not keep her alive.
If alive was what she was. She wasn’t sure. It had been only a few turnings of the sun since she’d scratched her way out of the shallow pit grave she’d woken up in. That hadn’t been fun. She’d woken up with a teriffic hang-over (if death could bestow hang-overs), and the ferocious need to feed. Pumpkins hadn’t fit the bill. She’d had some of them, and felt nothing. It was only later, when she’d found the arm near the back of the farmhouse here, that she’d realized she hungered for meat.
Ever since then, her food supply had plumpened. She’d not moved much, except to move further up the rocks when the worgen patrols came around. She’d never actually seen a worgen in her past life. They were much bigger and scruffier than she had imagined. Much sharper claws.
Despite her newly-undead state (which seemed to inure her to many of life’s little inconveniences, but not, alas, hunger), she was unsure of how she would fare against those claws. Even if she could not be out and out killed, she did not like the idea of being impaled, maimed, or otherwise ripped limb from limb by them. It would make eating meat harder, for one thing.
The sound of scratching came to her ears. She ducked below the bank, grabbed the corpse in her hand, and darted off towards her rock. A few minutes after she was safely back in the little alcove, she saw the normal patrol pair coming around between the trees. Curling up where she sat, Dez wrenched the gnome’s arm off his frame and chewed, keeping an eye out.
Presently, she could make out the customary pair of them loping slowly through the trees. The