A proud stag stands tall at the center of the kitchen, his antlers adorned with sprigs of rosemary and thyme. The air is fragrant with the mingling scents of wild garlic, carrots, and onions, all neatly chopped and ready. On the table lies a pie crust, a curious and unsettling sight—within it rests the form of a shaved wolf, her head and feet awkwardly protruding from the golden pastry. The stag’s hooves work deftly, pressing the edges of the crust closed, his movements both meticulous and oddly tender.

With deliberate care, the stag wedges a gleaming red apple into the wolf’s gaping mouth, a grotesque parody of a feast. Pineapple slices are pressed carefully onto the wolf’s feet, their yellow flesh a stark contrast against her pale, exposed skin. The stag steps back, admiring his handiwork—a dish that is both macabre and strangely beautiful. He inhales deeply, the anticipation and tension in the room palpable.

With a grunt of effort, the stag lifts the heavy pie and slides it carefully into the oven. The air crackles with anticipation as the door is shut, sealing in the savory promise of the meal. The stag wipes his brow, casting a wary eye toward the kitchen door as if expecting someone—or something—to interrupt his ritual. The rain intensifies, cloaking the forest in a hush.

The stag paces the room, his hooves tapping anxiously on the worn floorboards. He occasionally peers through the oven’s small window, watching the crust as it turns a deep, shimmering gold. Outside, thunder rumbles, adding a sense of foreboding to the otherwise cozy kitchen. The scent of caramelized pineapple and sizzling wolf fills the air, setting the stag’s mouth watering.

With careful precision, the stag withdraws the wolf pie, now perfectly baked. The crust is flaky and golden, the vegetables nestled around the wolf tender and glistening. The apple in the wolf’s mouth has softened, its juices mingling with the rich gravy pooling at the edges. The stag carves into the pie, revealing wolf meat that is tender and juicy, steam rising in fragrant ribbons.

The stag serves himself a generous portion, the flavors complex and robust—a triumph of woodland cookery. He chews thoughtfully, gazing at the empty chair across from him, as if expecting a guest who will never arrive. The meal is both a victory and a requiem, the wolf pie the centerpiece of a story only the forest will remember.