Ouroboros Spine I was three days on a drunken sin

The last of the meat he had chosen for himself was torn apart. Swallowed. Stuffed down in haste, maybe. The wing he left where it sat against the snow, spread out, stained pink at the joint where the blood sat and diluted.

Raimo looked from the wing to the woman, watching as she tended to her wounded ankle. He made no move to help her nor to leave, content where he sat. The fresh meat filled his belly and warmed him — made him lethargic, even.

How'd that happen? He asked of her, motioning with a tip of his chin towards the ankle. There were other questions on his mind but Raimo did not see the point in interrogating anyone just to satisfy his curiosity. It would have made for a good story, though.