The Pecking Order [OPEN]

Crow had been wandering the north of the land for two days. He'd been lucky enough to find a few streams and ponds to drink from to keep him going, and the remains of an old deer only partially decomposed. The birds, of course, had shown him the way, and it was the same flock he followed now. It was difficult to watch the sky and the path ahead of him at the same time, but somehow he managed, dodging between the trees, and hopping over stones sticking slightly out of the earth, while not losing track of the scavengers above. This technique had taken over a year of practice, and he'd lost the flock and gone hungry more than a few times since.

Somehow, though, he always found his way back to them. He'd be wandering one day, and he'd find one - just one - sitting on a branch, as if waiting for him. Often, he'd walk right by it, and it would caw loudly to get his attention. Then it would take flight, and the rest of the flock would follow. They never waited for him though. They knew the rule of the world just as well as he did. Survival of the fittest. If he couldn't keep up then he wasn't meant to live.

The flock lit down after a few minutes, and as he ran to the clearing that the birds now surrounded, he was pleased to find most of a calf laying near one side of it. It seemed as though it had been killed within the hour. That was good. The less time it was out in the open, the less chance there was he would catch a disease of some kind. There were also fewer insects than usual, which was a huge relief to Crow. They could be pesky at best, and deadly at worst.

As usual, the birds, sensing his presence, waited for him to take the first bite. Even if he was a scavenger, they knew he was still higher up on the food chain than them. As the first bird lit down on the carcass beside him, it knew that it could very well be injured or even killed if he decided it was not time for them to eat yet. Even if he had chosen the life of a scavenger, he was still a predator by nature.

But as usual, he didn't harm the bird as it began pecking at the corpse. He didn't even acknowledge its presence. Any movements toward the bird, even with the best of intentions, and the bird would take flight. He'd learned that the hard way. The birds were not his friends, just his meal ticket.

As he finished eating, he left the carcass, and went to find a in which he could wash his muzzle, and then drink. He found a small pond instead, just nearby. As he dipped his muzzle in, he shook his head vigorously to wash off as much of the blood as he could. When he was satisfied with his reflection in the dark green waters, he began lapping at the surface. When he'd finished, he lay down beside the pond, and sighed.

Was this really living?