Arrow Lake good evening, clarice

Teeth grated against the head of a bone; Lecter tightened the grip of his maw until the ivory cracked and the marrow was released. This he licked from the eggshell-white of the raccoon femur. He had narrowly managed to catch the wily little creature, almost losing it when it turned on him in a hateful, hissing flurry of spiked fur and wild eyes. But evidence of his triumph was littered 'round his new encampment with the sort of pride only displayed by a madman.

The entrails of the hapless beast lay coiled nearby, discarded for the elements and carrion-eaters; tufts of fur were strewn across the ground; a single eye complete with bloody viscera had rolled into the shadow of a berry-bush, staring balefully up into the bright shafts of sunlight.

And blood had splashed in death's own design across the shaman's face, pulsing belatedly from a jugular raggedly torn by Lecter's teeth. It had poured down his muzzle, dripping onto lips frozen in a mocking grin — his forelegs wore a cloak of crimson, as did the guard hairs along his spine and withers.

It has been too long since I was clothed for you, Sos, he muttered to his God, climbing to paws that still ached from his journey. In the past days, Lecter had fashioned himself a home along the lakeshore, out of a shallow cave he had stumbled upon by pure luck, and toward this ramshackle new hut he slowly traversed, pausing only to lift his eyes unto the sky and wince with chagrin at the absence of the Dark Bear.