Flycatcher Downs the art of getting by

Deimos watches as the yearling catches onto his presence. He's reasonably protective of the kill, his hackles rising along his back in a fan of fur. Deimos' fur remains unbristled, but he fixes his longing sights on Esche as he powers through another bite, scarlet dribbles pouring down his rounded chin. Deimos' stomach growls watching the yearling scarf down the bloated doe, and it's just audible enough that he feels a guilty grin spread across his features.

Mine, the blonde male dictates, rushing more food in his mouth like Gollum hungrily stuffing trout into his face. Deimos is bold but not so bold to presume this will be easy. So, he waits, his chest puffed and limbs neatly aligned, his eyes fixing on the prize with resolution. "You have to sleep some time." Deimos points out cheerily, his red gaze without any malice. "So I'll watch it for you while you sleep." He gives a roguish grin, knowing the joke might be poorly received, but he's hungry enough to try anything at this point. Even day old doe.