The normally tender meat a vole is presumed to carry, was oddly resilient against the force of my jaw as I crunched upon its corpse. This was to be expected of stale meat though, especially one you reached into the depths of a fresh kill pile for.
Corpses of various new leaf birds had become the base and form of the pile over the season, and discovering anything but was a scarcity. I searched everytime though. For eating the animal you wish to be didn't fit correctly with me. And anything I don't like, I avoid.
