Wheeling Gull Isle the lake is frozen over; trees are white with snow

It wasn't the most elegant way of shucking oysters, but it did the trick.

Jaws filled with one of the creatures, Maegi flung her head sideways and downward, smashing it into the rock jutting above the shallow seabed. Some were more fragile than others; this one was, bursting into shards that twinkled in the midday sun. Before her prize sank too far beneath the water, she reached down and grabbed the remnants, working the meat from the shell.

The hunt was an outlet for hunger, for rage—it was far preferable to the emptiness she had felt for days, moons, (years?).

Maegi was alive. . .for now. Alive, and knew every facet of it—the icy water against her legs, the wind stinging her eyes, the salty-sweet oyster on her tongue. She didn't know whether this assault on her senses was better than numbness; it simply was.

No, it was better. She had grown tired of the husk she had become. Jaes had not spared her children, but Jaes had spared her, and had spared Mou. . .and there had to be a reason. Right?

Licking her chops, she churned the wet sand with greedy forepaws, looking for another oyster, and to forget.