Duck Lake fortitude

Warthog was not made for leadership, and so she had no intention of scrapping and squabbling with the others to earn the rank of rulers below Dogmeat. Instead, the brooding hulk kept unto herself, pausing in her treks to cleanse the injured flesh of her dewclaw with careful licking, and the rents in her side were given equal attention. Slowly she healed, and with renewed strength came renewed hunger.

At the Lab, they had been given regular meals. Bland, to be sure, but the cardboard taste filled the belly if it did not titillate the senses. Here, in this veritable wasteland of snow and ice, the hot smell of blood ran rampant, and her drooling was increased tenfold by the odd glance she caught of rabbits in their wintercoats, alighted ravens, and yes, wolves.

At midday, the gnawing of her belly grew to a fever pitch, and she limped from her shelter beneath icy brambles to search again, desperation coloring her step as her massive head swung from side to side in her intent to track.