Redhawk Caldera Acer

The famine was starting to affect the bandit at last. The locusts had been a great deal of fun to him, and their dead bodies yet another source of entertainment later, but as the days went, the prevalence of hunger was starting to take its toll. He was lanky pup to begin with, but his look was made all the more angular now by the increasing jut of his shoulders and hips, and the arc of his rubs beneath thinning flesh. This was not fun anymore.

Ferret was rummaging through the brush, snapping up twigs and dead grasses and clods of dirt, anything that could fit in his mouth really. He was in a foul mood, and routinely swiped at and stomped at things along his path as he took out his frustration on the environment. The breeze brushed across his nose, and his head whipped around as if a fishing hook had caught one nostril and jerked his head as the angler flexed his rod.

The boy charged forward, thrashing and crashing noisily through the dry brush until he leaped out of the tangle and spotted Shrike, and— "Squirrel!" he barked, grinding to a halt. Eyes wide, he stared at the limp brown carcass, and it did not take long before saliva collected behind his fangs seeped out from his lips in a long strand of drool. Two things happened here: he was in awe that Shrike had caught the furry devil that so often mocked him from high in the trees, and he was desperately hungry; the scent of blood and the look of the dead squirrel had him pacing forward, transfixed.