Gore dripped off Varks muzzle. Thoughts and feelings ricocheted around the inside of his head. Vark staggered back from the mutilated corpse. But the queasiness had diminished. The shock subsided. A chill settled on Varks insides as he inspected his handiwork. The mist lifted from his eyes. He was the dealer of death, and it left him feeling cold and empty. Hunting was one thing, what you killed gave you food. Killing another out of rage and bloodlust was something different. But instead of a savage triumph, there was nothing but coldness. Before Vark could contemplate the matter any further, He felt a movement, just before the other coyote struck him across the head with her large paw, sending him reeling, senseless.
Vark struggled back to his feet in time to see that the coyotes were retreating. The battle was won, the mother and her boy safe. The brief and vicious violence ended as quickly as it had started. Vark limped over to a tree, and painfully lay down in the shadows. Blood seeped from various wounds, but he would live to see another day.
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