Interlopers


                                            >Your teats are freezing off.

                                            >Well, it sure feels like it.

                                            >Lifting your head from the warm constraints of your hastily composed blanket, you peer out around the cave.

                                            >It's definitely not up there with the depths where you spent your yearling years, but it's certainly nowhere near the oppressive, dinghy, moisture-gathering slickholes that you've called home for most of your adult life.

                                            >Caves just like the one you've been forced to bed in.

                                            >Damnable ever-cold.

                                            >You nestle back into your nest of cave moss and thawed feathers. You wish the latter component of your bed were pegasus in nature, but they're feathers all the same.

                                            >You're just glad you didn't have to kill for these ones.

                                            >It's not that you mind the necessary death.

                                            >You mind the mess that comes after.

                                            >A sigh escapes you, frost trailing your breath. Soon you'll be warm enough to leave your den, and you'll be back to the hunt for fresh forage.

                                            >Fwump.


                                            >Your blood chills. And you freeze. But not from the cold.

                                            >Fwump. Thump.

                                            >You skitter quietly from your roost. The warmth is fleeting as it trails from your once moss-stuffed leather wings. The fire in your veins takes over instead.

                                            >You shake off what you can of the moss and nest-stuffing, flapping silently—yet, as fervent as a fledgling—and take to a nearby alcove.

                                            >The stomping of snow gives way to dull thuds on stone as the entity enters your claimed den.

                                            >It has been a long, long winter since you've seen another pony.

                                            >But you know well that the one who enters is no pony.

                                            >With fretful warmth, your tufted ears tingle in listening.

                                            >There's a rhythmic pattern to the slow trudging steps, and it's quickly clear to you that this interloper is bipedal in nature.

                                            >Thud. Thud.

                                            >It's slow, methodic. A shuddering breath not your own. It's bulky, but no hulking manicore. It's of decent weight, a little more than your size.

                                            >There's also a distinct, repetitive click, sounding like that of claws. A rattling, like the clack of spears against armor in the Cloudsdale sky.

                                            >The question lays before hooves: a hunter and its weapon; or a lost explorer in armor?

                                            >It surely must be civilized. Unless this metal-bearing creature is of the magical ilk.

                                            >You tuck away your ears for now, instead honing your sight as the mysterious biped slugs its way toward you.

                                            >Its dark form is slumped, but still tall. It's no frail thing, but its visual gait matches what you've heard: it's weakened.

                                            >If it's like any other you've preyed upon, then it, too, has been weakened by cold and hunger.

                                            >And as it draws even nearer, you feel your own hunger stir.


                                            >Your vision starts to swim. The scent of it is just too strong. How can such a creature contend with such pheromones?

                                            >It's vigorous, bloody and full of power.

                                            >Drive. So much drive.

                                            >All of it to signal the need to survive, and the want thrive.

                                            >The biped stoops to your bedding. The metallic clicking from its back ceases, and you can see now that the snow serving as its pelt is but a covering for the clothes beneath.

                                            >But you're barely even processing that right now.

                                            >You /need/ this creature's essence inside your aching gut.

                                            >Your tongue strikes out across your fangs, lathering them in silent preparation.

                                            >There's not much left of the prepared poison in the upper cavity of your mouth, but you haven't been able to dig up rest of the scales from the same cockatrice you'd nabbed your feathers from. Not with all the snow coming down.

                                            >But with this meal, you could continue journeying south. Away from the cold.

                                            >If the spirits had served you this, then those lucky spirits had served you an end to the chasing winds.

                                            >The interloper sits and turns, placing its back to you. The long, partly metal stick on its back thuds into the stone behind the nest. In the dark, you see its clothed fingers waver out of its clothes, picking and squeezing at the softstuffs of your nest. Its body heaves, relaxing.

                                            >You creep from your hiding place, hooves soundlessly touching against the stone.

                                            >It coughs, leans forward.

                                            >You follow suit, taking one more step.

                                            >You're in pouncing range, but you opt not to miss. It's in your den, and you're not letting it get away.

                                            >It coughs again, and lets go of your bedding. It holds a fist up to its mouth, and uses it to cover its noisy deathrattle.

                                            >You think to yourself that you're doing it a favor.

                                            >You raise your fangs to the back of its neck...

                                            >"Fucking snow," he coughs.

                                            >You freeze.

                                            >And he does, too.

                                            >You hold your breath, but it's too late.

                                            >/He/ felt it.

                                            >He starts to turn around.

                                            >And you throw yourself at him.


                                            >Your teeth strike deep.

                                            >"Motherfucker!"

                                            >You do your best to hold onto him. If there was any other way this could have ended, it was too late; for only a moment, you hoped for a grazing blow. But the spirits had ensured you'd strike true. And you weren't going to waste their gift.

                                            >The biped's metal stick is cool against your body. The snow clinging to his back, however, is not.

                                            >"Fucking... fucker!"

                                            >Your heart plummets.

                                            >How is he still fighting?

                                            >He swings blindly at you, and while his dexterity is fascinatingly sophisticated, it's not enough to thwart you. His blows bounce harmlessly off of you, save for the few stinging slaps he manages.

                                            >He's yelling, now. Incoherence replaces the tangible soul he was before.

                                            >This... is wrong.

                                            >But the spirits...

                                            >Your mouth grip clenches and unclenches, but your position is ultimately unchanged.

                                            >"God... damn... fucking..."

                                            >There, there.

                                            >You can feel the droopiness in his battering arms.

                                            >Suddenly, his legs give way, sending him crashing to his knees, and meeting your cave's floor once more.

                                            >He topples backwards, and you take the opportunity to unearth your teeth from his meaty neck.

                                            >You roll away, a blur of leather, and blood.

                                            >He wheezes on the floor as more and more of his muscles give up against the magical venom.

                                            >You trot carefully around to his side. His head has lolled over, but he no longer has the ability to turn it.

                                            >Your own head sinks. Your ears, too.

                                            >His gaze is pale, but not dying. You meet his eyes.

                                            >And you realize for certain, that this is no prey.

                                            >The eyes of a predator glint back at you.


                                            >Your breath hitches. His eyes give a reaction to that, even without the use of his eyelids.

                                            >You let him roam over you. It isn't often your prey recognizes you. Not that you let them.

                                            >But this... he...

                                            >Tears pool up in your eyes, and you turn away. Your rump plants itself in the cold stone. But nothing is as cold as the hate billowing through you. Not even the chill of the winds outside.

                                            >No, the hate you have for the pony you've become... is overwhelming.

                                            >The bat pony you are.

                                            >Outcast by the tribe of pegasi who foaled you. Raised you. Loved you.

                                            >No. You cast yourself out.

                                            >But it would not have been wrong for them to be rid of you.

                                            >And as your spoken curses to yourself fade to cave echoes, you look back at the interloper.

                                            >The cold was for the lonesome.

                                            >But this one... he was a predator. One like you.

                                            >If you could save him...


                                            >The magic is foreign. The very act of collecting, weaving it, however, was somehow familiar.

                                            >You keep your eyes on the interloper's own, and attempt to sunder the faint cockatrice magic.

                                            >You delivered this poison, and by the night spirits, you were going to remove it.

                                            >The magic that flows between you and him is warm. In turn, the gaze and willpower you provide is the most comforting and gentle you can make it.

                                            >It's like nothing you've ever done before.

                                            >But you've always been different.

                                            >Things weren't so terrible when you were young. Your pegasus mother treated you as a blessing. Your flockmates didn't hesitate to take you as one of their own. Even the parents of others looked past your wings. In a time where Cloudsdale needed great warriors most, you were the most naturally predisposed to the warrior caste.

                                            >But you didn't have the heart of a warrior.

                                            >The yearling moons passed you like high-rising thermals. The wings of your flockmates glided easily into the pockets of armor and spears that defined the initial rites of combat. You struggled to even soar: for a time, you were locked to the clouds, and not to the skies where your kin belonged.

                                            >A long flight had brought you to this place. Flights upon flights, born of a desperate bid to escape the wonders of the civilized world your own blood rejected.

                                            >Out here in the unearthed hinterlands, you'd preyed upon the blood of the lesser. They were not ponies, not even the earth ponies you'd been raised to lord over, but even then, you did not shed blood in the name of pegasus pride.

                                            >Your mother was a pegasus. But your father, she revealed, had hailed from another tribe. A fourth tribe. A hidden tribe.

                                            >You were not a pegasus, but a bat pony.

                                            >And you were born to be a survivor.

                                            >The muscles of the interloper twitch.

                                            >He, too, is a survivor.


                                            >With startling clarity, you realize you have an occupied nest, and a nestling to take care of.

                                            >You eke out soft cooing squeaks, and preside over his reawakening.

                                            >You gave up on the search for your lost family long ago. Or perhaps, your family lost you.

                                            >And what is caught, is kept.

                                            >Predator interlopers are what you are, and what the spirits have ordained.

                                            >From this fellow interloper, you will have your answer.

                                            >Why must you survive?

                                            >His eyelids flutter, and he groans. You hold him with hooves and wings alike.

                                            >And your worries melt as his voice assures you that he is real.

                                            >"Fucking... rat... bastard."

                                            >You know for certain that you're neither rat nor bastard.

                                            >The biped certainly seems fond of 'fucking', however.

                                            >As the unicorns would often complain to your elders, you could use this to be 'diplomatic'.

                                            "Not fucking rat. I am bat."

                                            >This somehow causes the interloper below you to start giggling.

                                            >It's been an extremely long time since you've used your voice, of course, but surely you're speaking correctly.

                                            >"Ow!"

                                            >With his giggling cut short by his outburst, you glance down at him with a more thorough eye. His neck is still bloodied a fair bit.

                                            >"Fucker. I know you're the one who bit me."

                                            >He rolls his shoulders, but it doesn't displace you at all. It seems his muscles are still waking.

                                            >"Felt what you did, too. Weird fucking mind rape type shit. Shouldn't even be able to talk..."

                                            >As he rambles on, you lean down over his neck. Your long mane brushes over him.

                                            >"Hey!"

                                            >You flick your tongue, pressing it to the wound, and tracing the scores left by your fangs.

                                            >"Cut that... eugh. The fuck are you doing?"

                                            >You're taken aback.

                                            "I tend to your wound?"

                                            >"You bit me!" As he yells again, his arms twitch. Slowly but surely, his body is coming back.

                                            "Sorry. Was... am hungry."

                                            >"Then why not finish the job?"

                                            >You can't answer the interloper. You'd expected him to be thankful for the mercy, but instead he almost sounds... disappointed?

                                            >"I didn't sign up for this shit today. Not these fuckin' mountains, and not this predatory bat woman who's so keen to have me in her mouth."

                                            >Or maybe just irritated.

                                            "Bat 'woman'?"

                                            >"What? You're not a girl? What kind of faggoty voice is that?"

                                            "Oh. No, I am mare."

                                            >"Oh great. Some mini horse with fangs and venom. Whoop-de-doo." You see his hands flex with his not-so-subtle sarcasm. "Fuck, but I guess I'd have tried to eat you, too."

                                            >You nod sagely.

                                            "But I was better hunter."

                                            >"Take that back, you smug shit. I've still got a handful of bullets. You let me up, and you'll be amazed by what happens next."

                                            "Okay. But we not fight, okay?"

                                            >"You think I won't?" he accuses.

                                            "Know you can. But... we can be friend, okay?"

                                            >He doesn't say anything. He doesn't struggle, either.

                                            "I am not stupid. I am just alone. Like you."

                                            >"Yeah? Well..." He pauses. "Fuck. Why am I giving this any thought?"


                                            >"Alright. Let me up."

                                            >As you let him go, you sidle along to his front. There, you sit across from him, just beyond your occupied nest.

                                            >He rubs his wrists, legs, and bloody neck, glancing up at you every so often.

                                            >Finally, he reaches a hand behind him. The metal stick on his back clicks slightly as he flicks at it. He sighs, relaxing backwards.

                                            >Until he's met eyes with you again.

                                            >"/You/." He sits up suddenly. His gloved finger points. "Nuh uh. This is part of that mind shit. That's what's mellowing me out."

                                            "...No?"

                                            >He glares.

                                            >You stare.

                                            >"Alright," he relents. He leans back again. "So, say we play 'friends'. What do you gain out of this?"

                                            "A friend?"

                                            >"Assuming that stands."

                                            "I need to hunt. Can find prey. But cannot kill."

                                            >Inwardly, you smile; the talk of hunting definitely seems to catch his interest.

                                            >"Why not? You certainly had no trouble trying to kill me."

                                            "You are easy, here."

                                            >"I am /not/ easy prey."

                                            "No, no, I mean you are already in my den."

                                            >"Ah." He taps his head in a thoughtful motion. "Hard to bring all that meat in, huh?"

                                            "Yes, but also hard to eat out there."

                                            >"O'course. And you cook your meat, right? Or are you on a raw diet?"

                                            "I cook, of course."

                                            >You catch his question as his eyes move to the darkness around you both.

                                            "Have ways, here. No worry. Just need hunt."

                                            >"Huh. Well, look at you. Practical bitch, ain't ya?"

                                            >You hesitate, unsure of how to reply.

                                            >"Well, that's a good enough alibi for me." He shrugs, then holds out his gloved hand. "But even if we were to hunt together, I want my fair share for the blood you've cost me."

                                            "Yes, of course, of course."

                                            >"AND two more things for our prenuptial agreement."

                                            >You tilt your head at him.

                                            >"Oh, shit. Right, you probably have no clue what a prenup is. Lucky you..." He scratches his head. "Uh, two more things to keep us civilized."

                                            >Civilized!

                                            >He laughs. "Yeah, you know that one, huh?" He smiles. "Well, for starters, you got a name, batshit?"

                                            >Your heart plummets.

                                            >Unfortunately, he seems to take notice. He doesn't say anything, though: his smiles remains the same.

                                            >Of course you have a name, it's just...

                                            >It's so embarrassing.

                                            >It's practically an outline of your nature. You recall a time when you were /pegasus proud/ to have your name said aloud. It was who you were, and where you sat among the flock. But as time went on, the weight of it grew heavier, and heavier.

                                            >And at a certain point, you'd stopped carrying it at all.

                                            >Not that it had mattered: there had been nopony around to use it.

                                            >But now there was, even though he was lacking in hooves.

                                            >You at least owe him your name in return for your attempt on your life.

                                            >So finally, ducking through your memories, you dredge up the words that named your destiny.

                                            "My name is Nocturnal Osprey."


                                            >There. It's out. You fold your ears, and close your eyes.

                                            >The inevitable response comes, and it's exactly what you expect.

                                            >"Nocturnal... are you shitting me?" He's caught aghast, but the laugh wiggling in his throat comes out so loud.

                                            >You swallow, and nod shamefully.

                                            >"Nocturnal fuckin' Osprey. Shit. Guess it's better than some shitbull named Princess. Even if you did almost kill me..."

                                            >Your heart twinges with pain, but you don't refute him.

                                            >Somehow, despite being a predator himself, he makes you ashamed to not truly be prey.

                                            >And yet, something about his statement... calms you.

                                            "Thank you."

                                            >He's a bit jolted by your thanks, so you take the moment to smile, and gently steer the conversation onward.

                                            "And what is your name?"

                                            >"Anon."

                                            >'Anon'? That's not a name you were expecting at all.

                                            >"We clearly come from different places," Anon says dryly.

                                            >Your smile wanes.

                                            "I did not mean to offend you."

                                            >He snorts. "It'll take a lot more than that to offend me, sweetheart."

                                            >A comfortable silence settles as your names sink into one another's thoughts.

                                            >"Well, /Nocturnal/, the second caveat to our little partnership. No more jumping each other, right? There's plenty out here to kill us. Trust me, I've seen it."

                                            >You nod. You've seen it all, too.

                                            >"But if either of us die, I don't see anything wrong with eating the other. You feel me?"

                                            >With names between you, it's a strange condition, but you can agree with it.

                                            >After all, you're both predators.

                                            "You are... practical."

                                            >"Shoot yeah." Anon thumps the stick on his back. "About as practical as 'Ought-six, that's for damn sure."

                                            "Oh... okay."

                                            >".30-06 is a magical cartridge, baby. All I need for a good hunt is me and mister Remington, 165 grain, and of course—" he raps a glove against one of his heavy boots "—the knoife."

                                            >He glances back, then adjusts the cloth strap holding his stick over his shoulder.

                                            >"A backpack would be nice, too, but I uh... well, shit's gone." He holds both his hands out, and slams them down in a chopping motion. "This total fuckwit snagged it off me a week back. Huge fucking lion with a damn stinger for a tail. Shit was like a chain of mosquitos with grapes up their asses. Lost his trail in the snow, but I hope the prick bled out in Mufasa's pubes."

                                            >He pauses.

                                            >"Come to think of it, every living thing I've run across so far—which makes you number two, by the way—is loaded with poison. Real nice fucking place you got here." Anon rolls his shoulders. "Anyways, I've still got some loaded pockets in my inner liner that'll help us with any messier affairs."

                                            "You are ready to hunt now?"

                                            >"Shit, I don't know, batty. You're the one who bit me. How long is that poison gonna be in my system?"

                                            "It is all gone."

                                            >"What? No fuckin' way."

                                            "Yes way. You are feeling okay, now."

                                            >"Well, yeah..."

                                            "Okay, we leave now. I am hungry. You are hungry. Light is coming. We go while night walkers walk."

                                            >As you stand, he scrambles to follow you.

                                            >"But I can't see for shit out there!"

                                            "I see for you. You follow, stay close. You do killing, okay?"


                                            >You stand and turn, giving Anon a scrutinizing glance.

                                            >You're not exactly sure how he's going to 'amaze' you with his 'magical cartridge', but if he's got anything like unicorn spells, than he'll be able to do more than you possibly could.

                                            >"But I'm tired..." he whines... off-key.

                                            >You frown.

                                            "We sleep now, we never wake up. Hunt now, eat now, rest later."

                                            >He jabs an angry finger your way, but the sputtering words he makes go nowhere.

                                            "Come, we will make the talking. I know we stay awake that way. You are full of energy for talking, show you can do more."

                                            >The next thing you know, Anon goes barreling by you. He's twice your height, and if his heavy footfalls are anything to go by, then he's certainly been eating better than you have.

                                            >The cave entrance isn't far, and as you catch up with Anon, you find him staring blankly out into the darkness beyond the cave's mouth.

                                            >The snow remains in full force, and neither of you are particularly enamored with the idea of going out there.

                                            >He sighs.

                                            >"Don't say a word."

                                            "What?"

                                            >"About me not being able to see." He wags a finger around. "Should've known with those eyes of yours. Of course you've got built-in night sights."

                                            "I was not going to say more."

                                            >"Don't be a bitch. You thought about it."

                                            >A moment passes with you standing there.


                                            >"One last thing, autisty..."

                                            >You interrupt to gently correct him.

                                            "Osprey."

                                            >"Aspy."

                                            >To try correcting him, at least.

                                            >"What's the deal with the freak weather? It's been going nonstop. Day after motherfucking day. Is it always like this?"

                                            "Many many moons, Anon. Always."

                                            >"But surely you came from somewhere. This is apocalypse tier. Is it always-always? Or just always?"

                                            >You pause to mull over his wording.

                                            "Always-always."

                                            >"Then what the hell happened?"

                                            >The story is one that's been passed down through the generations. The spirits are many, but the tale of the ones who haunt the lands where ponies find purchase, is the one you summon to your tongue.


                                            >Anon listens, totally enraptured by the tale.

                                            >You can't help but be amused by his rather foalish sounds of awe.

                                            >"So you're saying some dickheads in the sky are snowing us in?"

                                            >Yet again, it takes you some time to mull over his question. But you appreciate the mental challenge Anon presents.

                                            >Finally, you nod, satisfied that he's understood the story.

                                            "Yes."

                                            >You feel a little proud; you're starting to understand his profanity-riddled speech. And he remains quite thoughtful in spite of it.

                                            >"Thank fuck. Thought this was some Long Dark shit. Nope, just dickheads in the sky..." He rubs his chin. "God and co just fuck us all, no matter where we go. Man. Guess even telling us why would be too much to ask."

                                            >Reminded of your past years here in the mountains, you can't help but agree with him.

                                            >"If you see one of those windigo fucks while we're out there, let me know. They 'ought' to enjoy what I've got for 'em. Eh?"

                                            >You're not sure you can agree with that course of action, but you nod.

                                            >As you step back out into the cold, freshly warmed by all the talk and action, you can't help but enjoy the bit of hope Anon's arrival has given you.

                                            >You feel Anon's hand brush through your tail. You give a soft 'kee' and skitter further into the snow.

                                            >"Come on, batty! What's the point in having wings if you aren't gonna use them?"


                                            >Typically, you'd wait until you were headed back to your den, or in need of a little extra scouting; it's exhausting to fly in such conditions for long.

                                            >But for some peculiar reason, the snowfall is a little lighter than usual.

                                            >It wouldn't be a hard take-off and flight at all.

                                            >So with a few bouncing hooves in the snow, you cast your wings open, and take to the sky.

                                            >Your thickened coat hairs catch on the wind, but the warmth will hold for quite some time. Especially if the weather stays this nice.

                                            >Behind you, now fully regretting his encouragement, the hairless, cloth-wearing biped known as Anon trudges downhill after you, hurling insults and profanity all the while.

                                            >And oddly, this feels like it could be one of the best nights of your life.

                                            >Because for once, you're not alone.


                                            >"C'mon, bat bitch! Fight back!"

                                            "No!"

                                            >"Call me monkey! Ook-ook—aaaAAA!"

                                            >A moment passes. You don't glance behind you.

                                            >"I-I'm good! Thanks for asking!"

                                            >As you circle back around to the hill Anon's crested, you catch him dusting off an extra heavy layer of snow.

                                            >You give a shrill little laugh at the sight.

                                            "You fall so much!"

                                            >"Fuck you, you four-legged fucker!

                                            "Monkey!"

                                            >You giggle to yourself. You have no idea what half the words he's using mean. But you're having the time of your life.

                                            >You're not sure exactly how long you and Anon have been traveling, but since you're still running warm-blooded, and remember the way back, a diminished sense of time is good enough for you.

                                            >The night is, again, remarkably more restrained than normal: the warmth retained by your coat contrasts pleasantly against the low-blowing winds across the mountain.

                                            >The terrain in the general vicinity shapes itself into a valley, with the stronger and harsher winds sequestered away by the flanking peaks.

                                            >Very few trees still stand, but the woods taper off from the higher inclines just enough to leave most of the central hills as open terrain.

                                            >You can't exactly track much from where you are, even with the lighter weather, but you're certainly able to spot any potential quarries.

                                            >Unfortunately, all you were seeing right now was snow and faint moonlight.

                                            >"If I'd have known I was going to get lost in the mountains, I probably would've ditched the winter camo for a warmer set. At least I feel like the White Death right now."

                                            >You come in for a landing beside Anon, content with your latest scouting work. A plume goes up as you touchdown and fold your wings.

                                            >Anon merely raises a hand to shield himself.

                                            "It snows much where you come from?"

                                            >"Eh, no." He casually dusts the extra snow from his sleeves. "I /feel/ like a Finn, but I just fucked off to the mountains for a bit. A bit became much, though."

                                            "Warm, then?"

                                            >"Oh yeah. Plenty more sun, too."

                                            "Sun still shows. Just not so often."


                                            >"I figured as much." He wipes a bit of the accumulated snow from the lip of his thick white hood. "For a while, back when I was still stuck in the first storm, I thought I somehow trekked into leaf land. But no, the trees aren't exactly what I'm used to, and even though it's mostly been white, everything is way too fucking bright. The lion shithead was practically a brand new box of crayons. And while you're kind of a gray, you've got those big red irises. Real plain to see."

                                            >You don't have much to offer in return. His words are of interest to you: there's meaningful insight in the little details he presents. Details you've grown around and avoided.

                                            >For one thing, you've rather felt that the world has always been rather drab and gray. But here, as an interloper, Anon saw it in a literal new light.

                                            >Anon scratches his chin and smiles lightly.

                                            >"You know what? You, bat, aren't half bad. You're a good listener."

                                            >Your ears automatically perk up attentively.

                                            "Oh?"

                                            >"Exactly."

                                            >You shyly tap your ear with a hoof.

                                            >Anon reshoulders his strapped stick as you both start up a new incline. "Most people don't like me. The few who put up with me were autistic in their own way, and we didn't match well. But you, Ospy? Well. You've caught me off-guard already. I guess I'm just wondering what other surprises you've got in store."


                                            >"...Alright, enough gay shit outta me. I'm starving, Ospy. Where the hell's all the prey finding you mentioned?"

                                            >You roll your eyes, and lift off once more.

                                            >It's quite some time later when Anon sees you come gliding back around.

                                            >His volume matches your hard look.

                                            >"What did you see?"

                                            >Hovering in front of him, you motion for him to quiet. You're not sure he fully understands the meaning of the gesture, but he does at least come quietly.

                                            >You eventually descend, and transition to slinking up the snow, barrel chilled by the packed surface. Beside you, Anon crawls by his elbows.

                                            >Your hooves and his hands lock over the hill, and you both take a shared look at the sight before you.

                                            >A flat plane of ice dominates a rotund valley within a valley: a frozen lake. You've visited before, but in the time since your last passing, the terrain has been molded anew.

                                            >Thinned by the lightened snowfall, gangly shoots of winter grasses have sprouted from the earth. They are low, and sit in waiting for the common sunrise, but they are not as free as they believe.

                                            >Anon's breath hitches as he finally squints hard enough to pick them all out.

                                            >The dozens of deer who have come to feed.

                                            >The herd stretches all along the frozen lakeside, and they feast hungrily on the defenceless grasses. From young fawns to ancient bucks... it's as if all the deer you've ever seen have come to take full advantage of the irregular weather.

                                            >"Fucking..."

                                            >And in the midst of your awe, a terrible, terrible word leaps from Anon's maw.


                                            >You stare at him, utterly transfixed, and utterly horrified.

                                            >The spirits watching over you, blessed as they may be, are shaken so much that their quakes rattle through your bones.

                                            "Do not say that!"

                                            >Anon gives you a perfectly quizzical look

                                            >"What? I'm just calling it how I see it. They're /fucking/ meadow—"

                                            "No! Stop! You are so profane!"

                                            >His face screws up with defiance.

                                            >"So says the bat who nearly fucking killed me!"

                                            >A distant, throaty moan breaks up your hissing fight.

                                            >Thankfully, as you both settle down in order to watch the deer, it appears to have been little more than idle deer chatter.

                                            >They still don't know you're there.

                                            "Spirits do not like that word. Do not say it."

                                            >"What, are they some kind of PC deer spirits?" Anon shakes his head.

                                            >You don't intend on letting him carry this on.

                                            "Time for walk talk is over. We hunt, now."

                                            >Without a word, Anon starts to unsling his stick.

                                            >He brings it to bear, and even scoops a bit of snow out of the way to rest it more comfortably between his arms and the ground.

                                            >You immediately get the idea.

                                            "You hunt from here?"

                                            >"S'what my boy was made for, batto."

                                            >Anon's eyes are down the length of the mountain range valley, but his hands fiddle with the top of his stick.

                                            >"You know what a rifle is, Ospy?"

                                            "Eeee, no?"

                                            >"Aight." He appears unbothered by your answer. "Well, this'll be some John and Pocahontas type shit, then."

                                            "Pocahooftas?"

                                            >He gives you a strange, sidelong look, then resumes his even stranger preparation ritual.

                                            >"Okay, not Pocahontas. Back To the Future. When I get this baby sighted in, you're gonna see some serious shit."


                                            "...Yes?"

                                            >"Damn, you're really that uncultured, huh?"

                                            "Sorry."

                                            >"Don't sweat it, autisty. Pocahontas is some gay shit, anyhow."

                                            >He reaches for an outcrop of the 'rifle'. It's metallic in nature, and pulls back with a clean click.

                                            >He briefly fishes in a pocket on his clothing, then holds an open palm to you.

                                            >The shiny oblong object is humble in appearance. But it's still nothing you've ever seen before.

                                            >Given its strange shape, you'd almost consider it an exquisite work from a goldsmith.

                                            >You lean down and smell Anon's hand.

                                            >Beneath the glove, his strong scent bleeds through.

                                            >The odor on his shiny piece is much harder to place: it's certainly acrid, but not quite pungent.

                                            >Before you can bring your muzzle closer, he tilts his hand, and pinches his forefinger and thumb around the base of the oblong piece.

                                            >"165. It'll snag us a deer, easy."

                                            >Mesmerized, you watch him place the object in a revealed space on his rifle.

                                            >He reverses the metal's previous movement, and leans down.

                                            >You lean with him. He's back to fiddling with the top of the rifle, but from your new position right by his head, you can see just what he does.

                                            >And lo, you find his rifle is equipped with a sort of spyglass!

                                            >Your wings flutter in a small flap of excitement.

                                            >For one reason or another, it's such a pleasure to be able to recognize something belonging to the interloper.

                                            >Anon glances back, then moves his head aside.

                                            >You immediately take his place to peer through the glass.

                                            >It really is as if the deer are just a few hooves away from you.

                                            >Anon pivots his glorified spyglass mount gently across the snow, giving you a complete pan of all the prey around the lake.

                                            >"You gonna be my spotter, Operator Osprey?"


                                            >You pull away and smile at him.

                                            "Spot how? Silly. You have a spyglass!"

                                            >"Oh, sure. It's a scope. But what good's an optic without a target? Whatcha see out there for us tonight?"

                                            >Anon returns to his previous stance: one glove holds down on the back of the rifle, where he rests his head and squints; the other glove is wrapped taut around another peculiar outcrop, with a pointed finger clearly primed for movement.

                                            >"I'm thinking one of those big bucks on the right."

                                            >The shift to a more serious and practiced tone is something of a nice change of pace.

                                            >It's clear Anon is capable of committing to the hunt.

                                            >That makes you all the more trusting in the act of lending him your eyes and ears, while letting him press his 'fangs' to flesh.

                                            >You look over him and the hill, your sharp eyesight taking you to the group of deer he mentioned.

                                            "No... Too much meat. And too healthy."

                                            >"Good point. You hunt deer before?"

                                            "No. I try stay small."

                                            >"Right, you have to. Well, had to." He pauses, then gives a low chuckle. "Some venison'll be a real fuckin' treat, then."

                                            "Venison?"

                                            >"The meat of the game. In this case, we're after meadow..." he gives you a rightfully wary eye, "...fucker venison."

                                            "Okay."

                                            >"There's some slow movers on the left. Mostly does and fawns."

                                            "Yes, I see."

                                            >Another moment passes, and then you let out a hum.

                                            >"Whatcha got?"

                                            "Lonely buck. Left."

                                            >Anon adjusts.

                                            "More. And look up."

                                            >"I'm moving... Ah, I see him."


                                            >It's a lonely thing, scrubbing through the outermost grasses with no company but its own. Its fed well-enough, and its antlers are just grown enough to say it's an adult.

                                            >You feel if there's any deer in particular need of a higher purpose, it's this one.

                                            >"I'd say we're about 250 yards out. Negligible mils, it'll shoot flat. Wind doesn't feel too bad right now, but..." Anon removes his bracing arm, and gives his hand a brief wave.

                                            >You allow your ear a purposeful flick. There is wind for sure: it's coming from the east, and blowing in warming waves.

                                            >You tell Anon as much.

                                            >"Yeah, you're spot on. I'll fight it a bit."

                                            >There's a short pause, a period of inactivity that belies the full intent of the moment.

                                            >It's the subtle quiet of a hunt, the moment just before the pounce.

                                            >And the kill.

                                            >You hold your breath and look at Anon. He's still devoted to the rifle in his hands, subtly scooting in minute deviations.

                                            >His bracing hand shifts against the back of the rifle, but his pointed hand holds steady.

                                            >"This shit's not easy," Anon remarks in a whisper.

                                            >Is that hesitation you feel in his voice?

                                            >"Because I'd rather be down there pounding a doe raw."


                                            "What?"

                                            >Your incredulous look isn't even required to distract him. He sets his rifle down and turns to you, his coming rant already clear.

                                            >"Look, Ospy. Not too sure how much you know about man, but speaking as a man to a mare, there's two things that get me about deer." He holds up a finger. "One, why the fuck do they have to be so damn sexy? A while back I was even packing up to go meet this dickhead who had a plan to trap and tie up a doe and take her... you know, the whole nine yards."

                                            >You absolutely don't know, and you're not sure Anon even cares if you want to know or not.

                                            >"But like I said, /dickhead/. Anyways..." He moves on from his resentful tone, and holds up a second finger. "Petting and fucking 'em is kinda exclusive with eating 'em."

                                            "Eeee... yes?"

                                            >"Kinda exclusive. I mean you could do both but, shit, that's..." He waves dismissively. "Point is, I love hunting, and don't mind stripping my own kill, but doing it as my only option? I know damn well I'd rather be hunched over some nugs and sauce."

                                            >He returns to his rifle, shouldering the butt of it again, and holding one eye through the looking glass.

                                            >"Hell, I wouldn't even mind some gay veggie burger. But I'll take what I can get. Or what we can get."

                                            "Mm. Yes. It is how life is, here."

                                            >Your voice is sullen, and for good reason.

                                            >If it hadn't been made clear before, then it was, now: you were both raised civilized, and this 'return' to predatory methods was something of an aversion to you both.

                                            >"Alright." Anon's voice is slow. "Just watch the shot for me."


                                            >The collection of deer push and swell like leaves in the breeze. It's a mesmerizing flow, but you focus on the buck you and Anon have chosen.

                                            >You're not entirely sure about just how the weapon Anon is using could possibly kill from so far, but the confidence he wields is staggering.

                                            >You recall the first time you picked up a spear. The weight of the shaft, the sharpened head, and the iconic engraving of a Cloudsdale weaponsmith etched into the fine grain.

                                            >The thought of using it against a pony was, and always has been, a bitter concept for you. It was always a 'just-in-case' kind of thinking, but at the end of the day, it had been made for a purpose.

                                            >As Anon's rifle forms a perfect line between him and the buck, you do your best to take in every last detail.

                                            >The pale focus of the hunter's eyes.

                                            >The lackadaisical stance of the unaware prey.

                                            >The soft flakes burying you all.

                                            >Thwick.


                                            >You blink, your ears prickling from the sharp noise.

                                            >It echoes all down the range, a rippling, coasting bang that rides over the low winds across you and Anon, and the gusty gales far above.

                                            >By the time your eyes are opening again, you remember to get a look at your quarry.

                                            >A ready state of alert swims through the sea of deer; ears sit poised up high, and all grass-eating has come to a stop.

                                            >The buck has done more than raise its head. It's broken into a run.

                                            >And then, the run breaks.


                                            >Even from this distance, you hear the thud of its body against the snow, just as plainly as you see it.

                                            >You hear Anon manipulating his rifle, and you glance over.

                                            >He pulls back on the metallic action, and that oblong '165' comes out with a little puff of smoke. It's missing its front half, and Anon doesn't bother to pick it up after it bounces off of his hand.

                                            >He stands, and you stand with him. He shoulders the weapon, but holds to the strap for a moment longer.

                                            >You both watch as a few deer start away from the fallen buck. Many stay right where they were.

                                            >Anon sighs. "Fuck."


                                            "You are okay?"

                                            >"Yeah. I'm fine, Osprey. Just... thinking if I should load a few more rounds. You know of many predators around here?"

                                            "Not night hunters. Only us."

                                            >"Right." He breathes, then lets his weapon go. "Worried about competition. But from the looks of things..."

                                            >You put a hoof on Anon. He checks your touch, then matches your gaze.

                                            "It was a good kill."

                                            >As you speak, the wind dies down again.

                                            >"Yeah, thanks." He visibly loosens. "So damn easy, man... shit, I mean, look how many there are."

                                            >You get the feeling he's used to hunting, but not quite hunting this easily.

                                            >You were a little hesitant to call it a kill to begin with, but it certainly was.

                                            >And all he'd had to do was twitch a finger.

                                            >Anon was dangerous. More dangerous than many things out here. Just like you. Capable and equipped to kill.

                                            >Rabbits and voles had grown more and more scarce through all your hunts, bringing you to the hunger you had tonight.

                                            >Who was to say the deer wouldn't learn to hide as well?

                                            >"Let's take care of this and head back to the cave."

                                            "Yes."


                                            >As you and Anon start down the hill, though, most of the deer remain on the open plain, and resume eating.

                                            >It's only one shot, on one moonlit night, but you can't help but feel that it means something much more.

                                            >The thoughts sink in with each step you take. You think better, that maybe you should take off and glide down to the kill.

                                            >But that would mean leaving Anon.

                                            >You look back at the interloper, and think of just what might be going through his own mind.

                                            >You're not concerned with him killing you—after all, you'd tried to kill him, first.

                                            >But you're worried about what he'll want to do after this.

                                            >You've been isolated for so long, and he's only recently been forced into his position: he's spent days; you've passed moons.

                                            >It's clear as day that Anon has not killed nearly as much as you.

                                            >A hunter he is, but a survivor?

                                            >Neither of you want to do what you have to do.

                                            >But right now, neither of you are alone.

                                            >And you wouldn't mind if it stayed that way.

                                            >For now, you tuck away the thoughts. A new challenge lays ahead.

                                            >Curious heads raise to look at you and Anon.

                                            >In the remaining ambient light, you both squint back at the prey.

                                            >While none of the living have slipped away during your hillside descent, the moon has taken full advantage of the time: the sky has darkened again.


                                            >"Weird fuckin' deer. They don't talk like you, do they?"

                                            >You click your tongue at a little one as you pass. The mother and fawn are eager to spring away.

                                            "No."

                                            >"You sure? Because I was joking about eating you. I mean, I would, but then you talked. And that's weird as shit."

                                            "You want mate with deer, but also kill deer, eat. But if deer talk, you just mate?"

                                            >"...Fuck you."

                                            >You provide him with a 'keekee' giggle.

                                            >You pass deer and more deer. Your presence is becoming somewhat more of a disturbance by now, but they still do not flee.

                                            >The grasses underhoof offer meager portions, but evidently it's more than worth the risk of the predators walking among them, as well as the looming return of the harsher snow.

                                            >Anon reaches the felled buck first.

                                            >You come to a stop beside him as he puts a knee to the snow.

                                            >He places a hand on the buck, just beside the apparent wound: a hole just behind the front left foreleg.

                                            >Speckles of blood dot the short, fleeing path of the buck, and below the body, the red grows thick.

                                            >It's not as much of a mess as you expected.

                                            >But as Anon reaches for one of his boots, you are offered a harsh reminder that this is no mere morsel.

                                            >Wordlessly, he bends over the buck.

                                            >The blade of his knife is like fangs put to metal.

                                            >The sound of the sawing of flesh is like nothing you've experienced. With small prey, the crack of bone in your jaws does little to dismay you. And yet, this precise, calculated process...


                                            >Anon tears away from the kill to look at you. "You ever skin or pull meat like this?"

                                            >You shake your head 'no', eyeing the bloodied tool.

                                            >"Wanna give it a shot?"

                                            >He's not just brandishing it at you, he's /offering/ it to you.

                                            >Worse yet, you find yourself taking the handle!

                                            >"Huh. Guess I should've figured you'd have to work by mouth."

                                            >That's not necessarily true, but you don't even want to try with your hooves.

                                            >"I'll guide you through the shits, so don't you fret, Ospy."

                                            >You nod, and swallow your nerves as best you can.

                                            >Anon traces a thin line for you to start with. He gives no more guidance than that. There's no feedback on the depth of your cut, or the speed of your work.

                                            >The body goes quick, and he rolls the buck over as you go.

                                            >You slow for a good bit, not so worried about the blood as you are about cutting yourself with your increasingly loose grip. You have to resettle quite a few times.

                                            >Even your fangs find a way into the equation: you clutch tight to the knife.

                                            >"Yeah, gut that fucker. Look at you go! You're a natural."

                                            >Is it helpful? Not really. Does it make you feel much better. Slightly...

                                            >As he guides you to the head, finally, your stomach really begins to curl.

                                            >Still crouched, he raises a finger and points. "You can keep the tongue if you want. I don't care for it myself, but you might like it."

                                            >Your insides eject from you in a swift storm.


                                            >Anon sighs.

                                            >Your coughing is the only sound amid the snow.

                                            >"At least you turned your head away." He roughly places a hand on you, and begins drawing circles into your withers.

                                            >It's not as comforting as you're sure he intends, but it's comfort nonetheless.

                                            >"Take a sec there, Ospy."

                                            "Thank you."

                                            >After a moment, he picks his knife up from the snow.

                                            >You thankfully didn't throw it up with the rest of your bile.

                                            >"I'll take over. You did good, though."

                                            >You plop your rump down in the cold snow, making sure to distance yourself from your sizzling upchuck.

                                            >The snow does a surefire job at cooling your firey anxiety... as well as your other bits.

                                            >Not that any of this is particularly attractive to you.

                                            >You try not to focus on Anon's gorey work.

                                            >You do want to learn the skills he's using, but right now, you desperately need that moment of reprieve he's given you.

                                            >Everything about this is strange and alien to you, even when disregarding Anon's presence entirely.

                                            "Anon?"

                                            >"Yeah?"

                                            >A nasty squelch squirts from his process.

                                            >You shudder, turning your eyes elsewhere.

                                            "You are not a pony. I do not know any other so civilized. What are you?"

                                            >"Like I told you to call me before, Aspy, I'm a monkey." Squick. "Human, specifically."

                                            "You human are hunters?"

                                            >"Allegedly. The modern day American hunts more burgers and brominated vegetable oil than deer."

                                            "Oh."

                                            >"It's mostly sporting shit, now. Competitive shooting and all the other associated fudd fuckery."

                                            >Anon sets the knife aside for a moment, acquires a sturdy grip, and starts to pull.

                                            >You look away, queasier than ever.

                                            >Thankfully, you only hear the rip of flesh as he skins the deer.

                                            >"Off-grid type shit was always a dream. Fancied myself on learning how to get shit done, though. Only wish I'd learned the whole fuckin' tech tree for making everything guns from a primitive level. Sure as hell ain't getting more than the handful of 'Ought-six I've got."

                                            "You only hunt with rifle?"

                                            >"Nah, but it's all I've got for now. I can probably figure out how to make a bow. Spears aren't too much, either."

                                            "I am trained in spears."

                                            >"For hunting?"

                                            "War."


                                            >He hums appreciatively. "War. Now /that's/ the good shit."

                                            >Your ears fold back at that.

                                            "I don't like war, and hurting ponies."

                                            >"True, and I'm not some Hotline Miami psycho, either. But war is one of the best examples of humanity."

                                            >You look up, pointedly looking past all the blood on Anon, and engage in his intensive stare.

                                            >"Ospy? Are you hard enough to hear the truth?"

                                            "Y-yes?"

                                            >"All warfare is based. Warfare is based on sticks. And sticks are based."

                                            >You're able to watch him as he shifts into gear: no longer is it about the blood and gore coating Anon.

                                            >It's all about the sticks.

                                            >"Motherfucking sticks, Ospy... Let me tell you."

                                            >Bum ba dum...

                                            >Is that music?


                                            >"Sticks, sticks, motherfucking sticks. What a wonderful bundle of humanity's ticks."

                                            >Oh, night spirits. He's cutting deer flesh to his song.

                                            >"Sticks, sticks, motherfucking sticks. They build a better society than shitty ass bricks."

                                            >You don't think he even realizes he's broken into a heart song.

                                            >"You take a stick, you get a stick. Sticks makes sticks. You take a stick, you break a stick. Stick makes six. You stick 'em in some guy, just jab it through his eye. Take his home, raise a flag, on your own damn stick."

                                            >As he stands to move to the other side of the deer, he nonchalantly begins to tap on the deer with his free hand.

                                            >"Sticks, sticks, motherfucking sticks. Nothing defines man better than dicks with sticks."

                                            >He flourishes his knife and kicks the carcass of the buck over one last time.

                                            >"Sticks, sticks, motherfucking sticks. There's no other faggot like a man and his stick."

                                            >And as the song fades back into the peace of the snowy valley, Anon wipes his knife's blade on the hem of his wrist.


                                            "Eeee!"

                                            >He gives you a look, but you continue your shrill laugh.

                                            >"What's so funny, batshit?"

                                            >When no answer comes, he just shakes his head.

                                            >Anon plants his knife back into the snow, then begins opening his jacket.

                                            >A near endless tide of red and yellow scraps pours out, though he's quick to gather it before the wind can take it.

                                            >"Get your shit together. I want to wrap as much meat as we can with like, five happy meals worth of paper."


                                            >You are Nocturnal Osprey.

                                            >And you have, without contestation, just had the best night of your life.

                                            >Where normally you'd be too tired to do much but yawn in the dawning light, the sunrise-time journey to your cave is remarkably exciting.

                                            >For one thing, you're carrying more meat at once than you ever have before.

                                            >And for the other, you have company. Distracting company. /Pleasant/ company.

                                            >It is such a welcome reprieve from the typical night of oppressive cold.

                                            >Anon's 'paper' is a wondrous little commodity to have at present. You took as much meat as you could practically wrap and carry, and there wasn't even too much of a mess made in doing so.

                                            >As you climb back up the slopes with your cargo in careful tow, a red-orange sunrise begins to wave down and across the snowy landscape.

                                            >Beside you, Anon is lamenting about a 'travois', and not having enough wood around to properly make one.

                                            >All in his very colorful language, of course.

                                            >He carries on from one rant to the next, excitable and energetic in droves. There's hardly any real ire to his rambunctious hand-waving, you feel.

                                            >He is a man with a purpose, and that purpose is to bombard you with all manner of knowledge, practical and otherwise.

                                            >He's happy to go off, and you're happy to listen.

                                            >By the time you've returned to the cave, the morning is in full swing.

                                            >You dredge your tired hooves and self out of the snow, sauntering into the cave before Anon.

                                            >As Anon's voice dips into the cavern octaves, his own dwindling energy begins to show.

                                            >When you pass the threshold of your moss-covered nest, he abruptly shifts his one-sided conversation (he's a bit of a rambler) back to reality.

                                            >"It's a good thing you're leading, because I'm blind as shit in here."

                                            >You nudge him with your side.

                                            "Hold me."

                                            >Anon snickers, but obeys: you feel his hand come to rest just behind your withers.

                                            >"Yes, ma'am."

                                            >He rolls his shoulders, then gives an exaggerated sigh.

                                            >"Then again, I'm pretty sure there's a saying about being as blind as a bat."

                                            "This sounds like typical unicorn lie."

                                            >Anon snorts, tightening his grip on your coat. "Unicorns aren't known for lying, Ospy. They're known for targeting virgins and shit. Oh, and being horny."

                                            "Unicorns waste much time pretending they know many things."

                                            >"So they're redditors. Or autists. Both. They think they own what they're talking about."

                                            >You huff, rolling your eyes at the misinformed fool.

                                            "Unicorns try all time to make Cloudsdale serve. They fail, they know, they try again. They are wise beyond wings, but wings are above the wise."

                                            >"Shit, wait, are there actually unicorns here?"

                                            "Here? No. North, yes. Many ponies. Villages. Sky kingdom."

                                            >"And you're a fucking... spearman? Spearmare?"

                                            "Eeee... was warrior, yes. Keep tribes in check."

                                            >"Osprey."

                                            >Your ear flicks out at Anon. He flicks it back with a free hand.

                                            >"You're pretty fucking based."

                                            >You smile at his voice, his vulgarity ringing high praise.

                                            "You, too. Now, keep coming. We are almost there."

                                            >"I sure fucking hope so. I'm not falling asleep until I get something in my mouth."


                                            >Anon had done dextrous things to you.

                                            >You were really impressed with how he'd managed to bind your tail hairs together to hold and pull the wrapped venison.

                                            >But you were more impressed with the pretzel he had contorted into on the cavern floor.

                                            >Working carefully around the lump of manflesh, you deftly ferry your deerflesh about.

                                            >Now deeper in the cave, this is your 'cooking place', but you're not too bothered about the possibility of Anon ruining said grounds. You'll have to get some more snow to clean out the mess you're about to make—and if Anon plans to make one, too, it's no problem at all.

                                            >Forget the cleaning! Right now, you have some snow, and fresh red meat.

                                            >You peer back at the snoozing, swear-singing soul.

                                            "Anon."

                                            >A little smile touches at your lips.

                                            "Such soft heart."

                                            >Mute snoring bounds back at you.

                                            >You roll your eyes playfully, then turn back to your nook.

                                            >You have some work to do.


                                            >It's not all too long before you hear Anon stirring again.

                                            >"Are... are you cooking for me right now?"

                                            >Your immediate desire is to tell him absolutely everything about the cave-borne miracles you've found and put together.

                                            >There are so many methods employed (with care!) that enable you to cook here.

                                            >You could pridefully go on about your nest...

                                            >But you simply turn a tired, thankful smile on Anon, and nod.

                                            "Yes."

                                            >He ungloves a hand, and freely wipes at his eyes with his bare palm.

                                            >His eyes are close to tracking you, but it seems that he can't properly see you.

                                            >He's looking for your eyes... and it's amusing to make him search.

                                            >And speaking of still looking: you are so glad that he's still here... and real.

                                            >You return to your cooking, renewed by Anon's waking state.

                                            >"God. You must be the tradwife I never knew I wanted."

                                            >Your limbs twitch in your cooking process. You let the fullbody shiver run through you.

                                            >Like his... spirit-curdling swear against the deer, that word is something that carries both an emotional resonance you can understand, while also containing a word you're already familiar with.

                                            "W-wife?"

                                            >Anon doesn't respond. But he does smile.

                                            >He must not have heard your scant whisper.

                                            >It's probably for the best. Despite what he said before, you don't want to take any chances on offending Anon.

                                            "Almost time. You hungry?"

                                            >"Like a fucking fat bastard, Aspy." Still wiping at his eyes, now with just a thumb, he groans. "How are you cooking in here without a fire, anyhow?"

                                            >Heating stones, a traditional 'cavern nesting hole' to funnel heat, amid a carefully constructed...

                                            "No worry."

                                            >"Is it—?"

                                            "Is safe."

                                            >"Not what I was gonna ask," he grumbles. "But okay."

                                            >You finish soon enough. The meat is tender, and cooked to... the best of your abilities, and your conditions.

                                            >But it's safe to eat, and smells good enough for your body to give off a good reaction.

                                            >You cool the meat openly on a soft pad of snow, waving a wing over it as you watch Anon.

                                            >He finally catches your eyes again; some word passes out from his mouth as he does.

                                            >By your teeth, you hold the venison to his mouth.

                                            >"Mm! Mh—holy, mmph!"

                                            >You hum back as he suddenly struggles, eventually landing his gloved hand against your neck, while holding up the venison between you with his hand.

                                            >With the piece in his control, you lean back, biteless, but with the taste on your tongue.

                                            >He sits there, meat in mouth, eyes squinting. You can see his thoughts going as he deliberates over how to handle the burden you've passed to him.

                                            >Eventually, he settles on just holding the meat in a fist, and tearing a chunk out of it.

                                            >Circling along the cave wall, you watch him chew.

                                            >He takes multiple bites before he stops to do anything else.

                                            >Anon wipes his mouth against his sleeve, lowers the cut, and glances around.

                                            >"If I could see you right now, Osprey, I'd fucking kiss you."

                                            >Anon can't see you, but you can see him.

                                            >And he truly has the most /fucking/ happy grin you've ever seen.

                                            >Coming in from his side, he's not startled in the slightest.

                                            >You sit down beside him. Your foreleg rests against his knee, and you do your best to lay a wing across his back.

                                            "Eat. You are good, monkey."

                                            >He leans into you, and lifts the piece up to your own mouth.

                                            >As you take a bite, his smile widens.

                                            >"And you're great, batty."

                                            >You can't help but coo at that.

                                            "Eee..."

                                            >"And speaking of great, who tastes better? Me, or the meadownigger?"

                                            "ANON!"