Otatso Wetlands early drinkin' [m]

Lonesome had caught not one, not two, but three frogs. They hung from her jawls in a slimy line, spread eagle as she hopped and skipped her way across the wetlands back to the two wolves she’d been treating.

Well, if treating could be described as “giving them enough shit to not die”. Then she was quite good at that.

She tuned out their words as she came from the bushes, letting the frogs hit the ground with wet thunks, one after the other, their glassy dead eyes turned in every direction. She grinned, mouth smeared with frog blood.

I hope you’re hungry! She chirped, before her eyes found Colt, awake and seemingly lucid. She offered him a beam, pleased to see he’d actually somehow lived. Cool, she was good at something after all.

I got you two the big ones, and I’ll take the small one. She’d been supplementing her diet with what she could find anyway. She slid the two largest frogs towards the two, before settling with her own.