Lost Creek Hollow Lone ranger, Wayward son

"No, no, I definitely want it!" Rickon piped up a little too eagerly; too desperate. He was clearly hungry, and the prospect of burying half of a perfectly good meal seemed absurd to him. They'd never buried anything back in the trenches. Everything uneaten was left to the vultures and other less fortunate creatures— like the inept hunter, Rickon— but he supposed the wolves here didn't share that tradition. He crouched to take what was left of the rabbit, and then positioned himself with the meal between his forepaws, laying before the generous black wolf. "Thanks, man. Yer a life saver," he grinned, biting into the cold, but still-fresh carcass.