Who in their right mind would want to be out here--in the dark, in the wrong form, with a beast that can barely walk straight. A beast that growls and whines in one breath and fall silent as the grave the next, dwelling on what they don't have and must have.

It's being drunk on emptiness.

They're hungry. They're afraid. They're hungry.

Instinct has them twist their head, snapping something off a nearby bush, staring back at Guardian. What is it? A bird, perhaps, and now their mouth is full of bones and leaves, and their too-big teeth tear off a few more twigs besides, 'cause that's not enough.

A death knell, through all their bones.



'It's not enough,' they say.

Tell. Plead.

The walls are so far away.