Bearclaw Valley a descent into the maelstrom

a gift then comes, in the form of a piece of the dead thing. she sniffs the proffered meat and then licks it once, twice, thinking—snatching it from the wolf a moment later. like a child with taffy, she chews awkwardly, slightly uncertain but fervent all the same.

she mashes the flesh down to a pulp fine enough that she feels comfortable to swallow. she's barely tasted the thing.

but she likes it. Avicus swipes her tongue over chops, nodding abstractedly, staring down at the creature. she dips her muzzle and tries to take another strip, but her mouth is not yet made for such precision. she makes a bloody mess of the leg instead, gnawing at the exposed sinew.

then she looks to the woman in question, in slight pleading, and lifts her head to sniff at the oh-so-generous mouth. more?

whatever 'more' does or does not come, she eats well, learns, and returns to her den having made a new acquaintance.