Silver Creek two-toed sloths cannot shiver to stay warm

His lean frame was now withered. It could not be help; it took effort to maintain his fat and muscle as a lone wolf, and in famine conditions he did well to keep himself going. His ribs were apparent beneath his ash-and-smoke coat, and the arc of his shoulder blades and points of his hips had appeared now too. Yet his spirits were not broken, and his lope was still smooth and quick. The famine had taken its toll but it had yet to take him down.

He spent the morning hunting, and as he drew near to a border mark he applied his scent to the those of his packmates as reinforcement of their claim. It was a quick pause before he returned to priority number one. Morning bled into early afternoon before he picked up a fresh game trail; a hare had passed by. Rexxar tracked it doggedly, finding the heat of the day distracting, but his determination, his need and the need of the pack, was strong.

It was a solid hour before he unwound the trail and flushed the hare from tangle of brush. He gave chase, stretching his legs to full stride, feeling his muscles pull as he put all that he had into the pursuit. The world narrowed onto that one animal; nothing outside ends of its fur existed. His focus was so intense that even as the animal began to rise into the air he did not question it; he closed the gap and leapt, teeth snapping at flailing paws as still the hare rose, shrieking, and disappeared into blinding stare of the sun.

Rexxar ground to a halt and stared upward, panting heavily, squinting into the sunlight. His ears were thrust forward, twisting and turning as the shrieks carried away and went quiet... and then he watched as a hawk emerged from the edge of the sun and soared away with his dinner.

"You have got to be kidding me."