Redhawk Caldera born to run

He was still not fully recovered - Lotte had told him to stay put, not to stress the healing wounds that opened on his neck every time he even yawned. And the fevers were endless. It seemed impossible that he should ail so long, and yet, still hold on to life. When had he last eaten? Drank? All his life was sleeping, and the whole world was a dream.

Marbas moved drunkenly, as though he were walking on a cloud that wasn't quite sure it wanted to hold his weight. His nosed was filled with the sick smell of infection, and his eyes were clouded over with the intensity of the heat that burned within him.

When he saw the little balls of silver and black, he headed for them without a thought. They might be dinner, and he might be hungry. But, drawing near, the milk-sweet scent of young children came into his nostrils. He sneezed once, twice, and then dove toward them, clamping his jaws around the wriggling black mess of a girl.

Thoughtlessly, he turned back the way he came, jaws not-quite-gentle around the spoils of his expedition.