Flycatcher Downs Ring ring, the bartender please?

It seemed as though his soothing tones broke through the brick wall the wench had built and, for the first time in weeks, she felt the faintest glimmer of encouragement slip through her veins. She was still laying rather pathetically on her side when Sriracha removed the fresh meat and her nose twitched in mild interest, tongue protruding slightly from between her coated lips.

"Cotillita," she breathed, the effort sending shivers of uncomfortable exhaustion throughout her hide. Yet, though she refused to admit it, she was slowly recovering from the heaving; her stomach returning to its usual ravenous self and her throat to dry yet for the most part, painless.

Yearning took a hold of her motions once again her framework slowly shifted round to face the striped sir, nosing hungrily through the watery puddle of nutrients that lay at her paws. She took a tentative bite, relief making her shoulders sag as it settled within her gullet before lapping the rest up. It took a little while of careful consumption and a few satisfactory murmurs before all that was left was a patch of foul smelling grass; the agouti woman no longer felt all that weak with hunger. Through green eyes still fuzzed and blurred as usual, "Raccon, fish, thanks a bunch," were the only words she uttered.