Kintla Flatlands and you always knew the way to bring me down

"Dancing?" Whip spoke. His brow furrowed with confusion. "Looked like it was just doing bird stuff to me." It was a lesser creature; the bird did not possess the level of intelligence that was typical of Whip's species. In Whip's mind, the bird was only prey. It didn't know what it was doing. It simply existed. Lifeless. Thoughtless. An object to be used and consumed. "Well, it was." Now it was still. Torn and tattered, and partially eaten.

He stopped stripping away meat from the bird's hollow bones for a moment and fixed his eyes on Indra. Did she really feel something for this biological placeholder? Whip pushed the body forward and it rolled clumisly over itself in her direction. "I can share if you want," he offered. The turning of the season didn't allow for compassion or niceties, but if the stranger had previously laid claim on the bird, Whip thought the offer to be fair (and bordering on generous).