Flycatcher Downs the art of getting by

The silver morning found him on his feet, ranging across the fallow yellow prairie. A sullen yearling, rawboned and rangy, with chapped paws and glassy canary eyes. The sunrise blushed rosily in the east, but he traveled west, straight as an arrow toward the blue shadow of the mountains. In truth, he had no destination, only needs, and they could not be satisfied by idling in one place for too long.

Luck humored him. As the sun rose and he stove into the Flycatcher Downs, the dawn wind welcomed him with a faint cadaverine odor. Esche abbreviated his steps, tilting his nose to the air. His stomach whinged and his abdomen clenched as if to make him feel even more hollow.
He spared no time to decipher the smell and paused just long enough to get a bead on its source. To that, Esche tracked like a harrier, following his nose northwest. As the sun broke from the horizon, he finally found a late grizzled doe alongside a spool of sage. It was a blimp of uncertain age, but it could not have been too long dead by the pungency of its meat; and, more importantly, it was, apparently, unclaimed.

Still, he made worried sandcastles of his fur as he approached, eyes wide and mouth watering. He glanced around, feeling unapologetically criminal. But without an obvious reason to flee, he tore into the meat a heartbeat later. And with half-an-eye on his surroundings, he began scarfing his windfall breakfast.