Mud stays low to the ground, crouching above his kill. A lesser scol paces in the shadows. The scales along its back flake and crack. Its thick skin protecting the bones of its ribs. He feels for his knife and one of the haunches of the bunny. He tears through bone and flesh and sinew, blood slick on his fingers. He pops the joint free. The scol stops. Its blue eyes cut through morning mist, cold and creeping in the depths of the forest.  Leaving the mangled limb on the ground, Mud gathers the remaining pieces of his kill and eases back. The earth eases between his toes. Leaves brush his ears and neck. Mud wears Tick’s leather cape—took it after he died because what use is a fine cape to a corpse that will be eaten in the night by scavengers anyways? The scol focuses on the free meal rather than on attacking Mud. He stands and watches the switching of its tail. He needs to leave. He stays and watches until the scol licked its paws cleaned before cleaving another haunch from the bunny’s body. 

When Mud reaches his camp, his breakfast is missing three of its six legs and the fur is so mangled that he doesn’t bother trying to skin it before he puts it over the fire. Tick taught him how to snap two rocks together over wood shavings to make fire. Rock creates fire. Spectacular. 

“Spectacular,” he says, sitting by the fire. There is no smoke from wet leaves or young wood. He waits for the flesh of his meal to crack. He traces the edges of the tattoos curving down on to his collarbone and chest. A [url=http://cgcookie.deviantart.com/art/Creature-Design-Concept-Art-Series-374842227]cooka[/url] looks down at him. Its feathers puff around its body. He thinks its beautiful. Does it think he’s beautiful? The meat cooks. He eats. He stands. He stops. He could sit there all day. Could find a tall cliff and jump. Could track down the meanest scol. Get lost in a stampede of nells. He moves on, kicking dirt over the fire and leaving the bones to be picked through. The rodents will find he left no marrow in the bones for them. 

The rykes find him: spear on his shoulder, ready to thrust forward. He shivers, allowing his muscles to loosen. They caw in coo in their flock. Their sizes are middling, but each of their feather bristle and they hop from branch to ground, nipping at each other wings. They should still be at the shallows of the Still Sea. Mud likes to watch them dance, wings lifted high. It mimics the bird of his tattoos. Now, he can’t. The rykes forced from their home are not happy creatures. They cocks their heads and caw after him as he runs back to their abandoned nests and the Still Sea.  He shouldn’t run. He’s run before. Torn up his feet so that he couldn’t walk for almost a week. The rkyes are fussy creatures. They don’t need a reason to flee. It could be nothing. It’s probably nothing. So he runs faster.