The Guns of Khaz Modan: Red Snow
At last, the fire was crackling merrily. The dead tree had caught in the branches of another as it fell, which had kept the dead wood off the snow, and allowed the limbs to dry out nicely.
And with that, Ringo Flinthammer tromped through the snow to the corpse, while the great white owl watched patiently. Ringo took an axe from his belt and, gripping a dead limb distastefully, brought it down. The desiccated flesh gave off little smell as it parted, which in a way made it worse.
The gnome pressed her nose to the bear’s black one. The bear seemed a little perplexed by this, but highly entertained.
Once the gunshots stopped echoing, the bear cub bounded out of the tunnel, into the snow, the violence of a moment before already forgotten.