Bearclaw Valley buffet froid

If a raven could speak, that's what this voice would have sounded like. Cutting through the air in a way that was unnatural. Each fricative too harsh; and somehow also, reverent. An undercurrent of threat.

Stryx wasn't oblivious to the nature of the world. She kept herself as alert as she could be, given the weakness caused by her hunger, and the pounding in the base of her skull from an ever-present migraine.

I seek lunch, she all but groaned, looking for him. As her eyes sought a shape but found nothing, she steeled herself. But the name is Stryx. I'm a physician.

The way he looked at her, she wondered if she'd gotten that backwards.