Deepwood Weald Sherlock Work

The fact that his and Caeli's journey had been endured with minor famine was wholly to blame for the present state of the male's belly contents. The pair had gorged themselves on the fish rendered helpless in the muddy shallows at the lake and he was still feeling the feast's effects a few days later (as was the innocuous cluster of shrubbery a half mile back from his immediate location). He could only assume his companion was suffering from the crippling belly cramps as him; but it was fair to say the exuberance of Omega-3 had made his coat look like a Maybelline model.

In short he was not hungry. Not a bit. Not even when the little morsel flung herself into an even more precarious position on the forest floor. A dull thud resounded as all four feet returned to the earth and he picked a careful path around the creature as he circled it while maintaining a curious stare.

"Are you dying?" he questioned bluntly. It was the only real reason as to why things that flew could no longer fly. Suddenly he wondered why things that walked did not suddenly begin flying when they died. Or did they? He'd never been able to witness death personally.

I wonder if Caeli would tie me to her den and let me blow in the breeze he thought to himself (only somewhat seriously).