Fox's Glade saying fuck your name

Toad. He figures that his parents were some sort of New Age evangelists who named their kids after animals and flowers so that they would be welcomed back into the breadth of Mother Nature's hug when their time ran out. Or something like that. 
Called Ursus, he says, polishing off the last of the fox. He salvages what skin hasn't been torn apart (not very much) and cleans it with long strokes of his teeth. Interesting people, he grins inwardly. That was how dear Ico had put it. Believe it or not, we live with bears. The fox pelt was relatively neat. Its fur was matted with blood; he would have to wash it later. Might have a medic joining us soon.
Evien was another matter. Taylor didn't know that Toad had met him previously, but if he had, perhaps he would have felt the throes of a fitful teenage jealousy.