Overture Downs 2am fridge raid

A small herd of deer had taken up residence beyond the Mudminnow River, delving further across the downs as the hours wore on. At their heel was the grizzled, black-masked man who made no effort to conceal himself. Mud made a patchwork of his already striated coat, slicking the furnishings of his limbs down against the bone, making him look even older and more haggard than normal — but he did not mind.

His mind wandered from the trail of the grazers, to the sun caught behind a cloud, to the shapes of the clouds themselves, and back again. There wasn't much around these parts to admire, and besides that, Darius hadn't eaten in nearly a fortnight. His mind was drifting because he was hungry and growing despondent, and these were things he vaguely recognized as he prowled along.

hunger?

hunger was dear friend to her, like a well-bedded lover, much-kissed child, a fat tick behind the ear sucking up blood.

she did not mind hunger, the way an exile did not mind the scars upon its throat - it was not absence of something - it was, in itself, a state of being, neutral and unprejudiced, alike a newborn. mewling quietly and persistently, demanding to suck on a swelled tit.

she knew, however, the importance of that first milk - which to her was first again and again - and when the squealing grew unendurable, knew to drop into a starveling's crawl, and follow the steps of a hunter.

this one she'd seen as he crossed the little rivers parting from the streams feeding the hollow ( so important to her! ), and through mud which sucked at her bones stalked his stalk, not intending to be unnoticeable - merely, not a nuisance.

there'd be pity, or there'll be bones. either way, the babe'll be smothered.