Pounding the gears
The air was tinged with a sickly sweet aroma. The autumn sun, the constant rain, and the natural progression of fruit trees brought with it a particular flavor. There was something off about the way the air smelled, but it was also tantalizing. A soft hum lined the edge of every breath the wolf took. He inhaled deeply, tasting the essence with the finest of pallets. The acidity, the zing, the sourness, he relished it all. The aromas rolled around on the back of his tongue, soaking into his olfactories.
Before long, he was drowning in the smell.
The wolf of fire could almost not believe his eyes. His noes had neglected to tell him of the plethora of prey that gallivanted into the black hole of fermenting fruit. Of course, the ungulates were rather particular. From his vantage point, he watched as they were choosy. Not this one, not that one, but this one. If the fruit was too bruised, or too ripe - in the way that man would see fit - they mozied around the specimen. If it was just right, only a few bruises, still crisp to the bite, then it would be devoured.
"And why shouldn't they be picky?" The wolf mused. His voice rolling from his parched tongue. The orchard offered both drink and meal. It made the wolf a little eager. He inhaled deeply, held the breath and let it out slowly. Composure was once again restored. Though he longed to hunt down a deer for himself, it was unlikely that he would be successful alone. He doubted the fruits would do him any good. Well, if he picked the leftovers, he might have a better time than just good. Stilling near the edge of the forest and river he contemplated his choices. "Let the darkness sleep"
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