Raven's Watch our filthy hands can wash one another's.

The rib bone of the fallen stag still held a small morsel. The carrion had led her to the fall of the beast—taken by what appeared to have been plain stupidity when it had misplaced the angular ledges of the mountains. Other animals had already claimed most of it’s offerings, but the silver arrow had been persistent when brushing in, snapping her own jaws at the cackling of other birds and the like, shredding into the meat and taking some to fill her own belly—and keenly taking another piece, believing it something to benefit someone.

Bright eyes fell upon the icy form of another—she did not recognize the youth, but Stjornuati’s scent was marked upon him, if the cold winter air did not lie to her.

Loping forward, she dropped the prize, her eyes studying the battered fellow with lifted brows upon her slender coppered face. “You hungry?”