Blackfeather Woods young artists have gotta starve

 Kitsch watched unmovingly as the boy ate, responded to her admonition, then continued to eat. It was strange to be looking at one of these blackfeather wolves, to speak one-on-one with them. It was a rare thing that they acknowledged her existence [and, in truth, the kitten liked it that way]. In fact, she moved about the territory somewhat freely despite the fact that she was still, indeed, their captive. They just didn't seem to care — seemed to be preoccupied with more pressing matters — but Kitsch was always the captive of something, whether it be social status or the pursuit of beauty or the need to feel grounded and safe, or that healer-woman, West, or the poppy, or anything. Perhaps the Blackfeather wolves knew she wasn’t going to run away, and that’s why they were more lenient on her. After all, she needed them much more than they needed her, this white-and-black spotted nothingness.

“Hmm,” she grunted lightly, tipping her chin down several degrees and flaring her nostrils. To watch another indulge upon the putrid flesh easily, and quickly, cured the girl of her appetite and she jabbed the carrion away from her with two delicate ink-pointed paws. It would likely be several days before the impulse to eat would return; her appetite was a fleeting thing, nowadays. The caliber of food she was proffered [which, largely, was whatever she was able to find strewn about the forest or left around the mouth of the cache, for she did not dare enter their stores] simply did not facilitate hunger, nor did her largely high and sedentary lifestyle.  But this boy was royalty with access to all the best foods, as far as the kitten was concerned, and did not need to join her in her meal — or move closer to her once he was finished. Kitsch could feel red-hot apprehension flare deep in her chest, suddenly concerned as towards this boy’s intentions. 

Where others might have fallen silent, Kitsch’s stress always manifested itself as well-meaning indignation. “Why are you so hungry?” she inquired, looking at him through the corner of her watchet gaze. After a moment’s silence, she introduced herself. “Kitsch.”