( He seems, for a moment, transfixed. Startled — then embarrassed, searching his sleeves, the pouches of his belt. He pulls out the inevitable: scraps of paper, debris. Bolts. Dust. )

...food. Yes. Of course. That's what you - ...that's what anyone would want here. ( And it is precisely what he's lacking, until he comes upon one and a half stale biscuits, wrapped in parchment paper — so very clearly subpar even back when they were fresh that they were instantly consigned for times of duress.

He offers the food, for the far too little it is worth. )

This isn't what most ask of me. I could... ( But then, he hardly has the required utensils here to produce a meal. No, he is —

It's plain when the idea strikes him. When his smile turns from apologetic to well and truly bloomed. )

One moment. ( And it is only that, one, while he turns on his heels, rotating until he has the entire stretch of the mountain forest before him, until he sees in its nothingness something that stills him. And he waits.

They come fast for him: the dead of the woods, some barely risen, some wearing Rathakku's own marks — huntsmen and infantrymen, delicately revived. Slow, crawling. Bearing the gifts of the land: freshly killed rabbits, pheasants, bloodied fistfuls of berries, often still with branches of torn shrubs. Whatever they woke nearest to, they took, and now they come.

They stop at a modest distance before Kamala, carefully aligned. )

...don't be afraid. And don't ask me to skin them. But I hope they'll do.