( 'Starving.' What is it, to starve? To die? Not to feed. Feed, always. Feed now, hands greedy over the fish she collects and savages, claws adroit and jealous of the glistened, fatty flesh before her.
She bites into it, raw and warm in the way of freshly dead things, grinning with sawing teeth. )
...good. Much... good. More? Is more? Good.
( There is within her the instinct to hoard feeding, for storms brew, tides turn, supplies can stop. This, at least, is a certainty of provisions. )
no subject
She bites into it, raw and warm in the way of freshly dead things, grinning with sawing teeth. )
...good. Much... good. More? Is more? Good.
( There is within her the instinct to hoard feeding, for storms brew, tides turn, supplies can stop. This, at least, is a certainty of provisions. )