Sun Mote Copse You question the choices in your life.

Blackheart was in a sorry state.

She had not left the area yet, against all better judgement, as she was afraid of what might be out there in the big wide world. It was obvious by now that her Man was not coming back to retrieve her. Her interest in the autumnal boy, Bronco, waxed and waned alongside her panic; she did not know how to survive out here and soon she would waste away to nothing, but at the same time she knew it was unfair to rely on the boy's aid. As a native to these lands he would know the best places to find food or to sleep soundly, but Blackheart could not always find an adequate scent trail to follow as she sought him - or she would be distracted by the winging of a frightened bird from her path, a rabbit through the gorse. She knew she must give chase to these instead and at first she did try to keep up, but as her tucked belly became more obvious and her residual energy levels waned, she could not focus enough.

In desperation she had sought out whatever could ease the pain in her stomach, chewing on grass no longer sufficed and often made her dry-heave instead of curtailing her pain. Whatever youth she still held felt as if it had faded during this personal disaster. She felt like she was many seasons beyond her prime, lethargic, with aches in places she could not name; they all bled together in to a perpetual static clouding her judgement. She needed food—or she needed help—and could find neither.

At least, not until she found Bronco's scent again. It wasn't like she wanted to stalk him; but she knew nobody in this place, and the native population remained well hidden to her. Then again, she slept in a tight dark bundle in forgotten hollows each night, so it was very likely her own habits were making that worse for her. She hadn't really found Bronco's scent but many like it—dog scents gone rogue, thick in some places and thin in others. As she fawn-stepped across an invisible line, Blackheart discovered another scent: clay soil tangled with what smelled like chicken. She had not seen a chicken in this place and presumed it was a pheasant.

Her belly groaned. She looked around with a lazy sweep of her eyes, not exactly effective in her effort, and nose-dived at the dirt, clawing at it. Soon enough the top soil was loosened enough to expose something; she shoved her face deeper and gripped, tugged, could not free the morsel; but the feeling of dry feathers on her tongue was motivation enough. It hurt to dig—her shoulders burned before too long, her paw pads scraped on debris enough to bleed, her wrists were stiff—but the half-eaten pheasant was soon unearthed and she grappled with its limp neck, pulling it free triumphantly.