Moonspear change in the house of flies

It had been weeks since his last meal, weeks since he had found sign of life beyond that single raccoon. He did not know how to react at first, falling prey to his instincts and grovelling against the dirt rather than face the wrath of this dark entity.
But when she spoke his mind felt clarity for the first time in as many days; a sharpness, at first too hard on his ears, but familiar. The smell of blood permeated the air from the dead thing and even though the woman had thrown it aside, this was where his gaze travelled, lingered; hunger powered him through each desperate moment.
He rose; tattered and muddy, with tangled leaves throughout his ragged coat, he stood before her for a moment - but was too weak to remain so, and faltered in to a seated pose. His ribs were like shining ripples in a pool. His shoulders clearly visible beneath the thin skin. His head dropped and the bones of his neck serrated the space where light could catch them.
Hungry. He sighed, staring bright-eyed despite his weakness at the dirt; his eyes looked too big, and sunken in to his head, full of an infernal light. Tywyll knew he would die if he did not eat soon, and that understanding gave his expression a haunting, vacant quality.