Otter Creek sleep, soldier

Sharing wasn't something he was equipped for. There had been too many days of desperation to amount to anything less than that. Drusk sat with the rest of the fish and ate quickly, as he always did when he came across a hot meal, and barely tasted it. Whether he was peeling apart the belly or cracking through a spine, the sound of his companion's commentary and questions filled the void of an otherwise silent affair.

His focus was almost entirely on the meal. One ear kept trained to the shifting pitch of the voice, and when there was nothing left of the fish Drusk sat there gathering some of the blood and guts from off of his chin first, the earth second; sniffing finally at the dirt as if a fish might jump free of the water by virtue of his need.

He coughed up a bone, spat it out, sniffed it too.

Looking south, he gave a more purposeful chuff as if to answer a question he hadn't really heard. That way, maybe?