Broken Antler Fen yviss, m'evelien vente cáelm en tel

the mid-morn air is chilly, dandelion's breath rises from slightly slack jaws in plumes of writhing white steam; the biting chill rushing forth as salmon pink tongue draws across his jowls as he noses aside snow and dirt to take another bite of what meager morsels were left in the food cache. the territory was, recently abandoned; though the scent of pack remains faintly it is faded enough to assure the balladeer that he will not be chased from the fen by an angry mob.

...and even if he were, he doubted he'd much care. the draw of foodthings was too much of a temptation for him to ignore; making him both extremely foolish and desperate.

the meat is fairly well preserved by the cold that it is not yet rotten and though it's tough and cold, meat is meat. he tries not to complain — and fails for he bellyaches readily enough under his breath. ❝meat for the rats —❞ dandelion huffs... and yet, the insult slaps him back in return as he realizes that since he's eating it he must, therefor, be a rat.