“Well, it used to be.” Ghent turned the sandwiched mess of cake and frosting over, inspecting it. Amazingly, the packaging remained perfectly sealed. “Want it?” He brought his hand back with the intention of tossing the cake to her, Drust’s comment stopping the action. 
	Ghent's hand fell to his side as he stared, blindsided by Drust’s sudden show of anger. Before he could figure out what he did wrong, the Knight was growling at him, going on about sustenance and basic needs. Two things that, unfortunately, Ghent never bothered to consider until that moment. 
	Ghent didn’t say anything. He gawked, chilled all over again by the intensity of the man’s stare. He couldn’t believe Elayra survived fourteen years with a guy who got angry over sour Skittles and chocolate. 
	Elayra was the first to speak up. Ghent heard her, but he didn’t dare let the man out of his vision. He wanted to say something, to defend his choice in edibles, but nothing came out. One wrong word and Drust might snap for good.  
	With Drust’s back to him, eye contact was broken and Ghent remembered to breathe. He caught Elayra’s glare, but failed to return it. He was too frightened by the sounds of Drust digging through the pack. Hopefully he wasn’t after something sharp.
	Fearing for his safety, Ghent’s eyes darted to the piece of wood he’d set aside. The makeshift weapon was just out of reach. Thinking it best not to make any sudden moves, he remained seated, visibly flinching when something was thrown. The bundle of cloth and twine nestled among the sea of snacks, a sight far less threatening than what he expected. 
	More silence. Ghent looked from Drust, to the bundle, then back to Drust again. His hands were clammy; he felt like he had to deliver a public apology to an auditorium full of angry parents.  
	[i]Who’s the mother hen now?[/i] Ghent muttered in his mind, annoyed that Drust cared so much about what he decided to consume. Who gave him the right to say what he could and couldn't eat? No one, that's who. Sighing through his nose, Ghent chewed the inside of his cheek, contemplating his options. The immature side of him wanted to mouth off or throw the bag of Cheetos at Drust's head, but common sense won out.
	The boy took a breath, steeling his nerves. He felt like shouting into a pillow out of sheer frustration, only shouting wasn't going to get his stomach to quit reminding him that it had been neglected. 
	"If you want me to ditch twenty dollars worth of snacks, fine. But at least meet me half way." Ghent jostled the bag of trail mix, its contents shifting with the movement. “This is the healthiest thing here, so it'd be dumb to waste it. We can split this, and…uh, whatever that is,” he eyed the bundle, wondering what type of animal the jerky originated from. For all he knew, they were dining on shadowmire.
	“That way, everybody eats, and my backpack gets lighter." Ghent swallowed uneasily, watching the Knight for further signs of aggression. He didn't know if the idea would resonate with Drust's Curse-driven mind, but he felt the need to try. "Sound good?"