For the first time in his life as a bodach, he does not have to hunt for his meals.

For the first time, he does not have to creep into the darkest recesses of the forest and beckon their fear to his tongue, does not have to selfishly siphon sorrow from Despoina. He does not have to shift into his crueler canine form and run them until their hearts might burst from fear alone, and does not find himself growing sullen and irritable when his conscience catches up with him and he starves himself of all the wretched things he regretfully (does he still regret it, though?) needs. 

Because for once they are all corralled onto the scraps of land that are left, and nearly everyone is suffering.

The air itself seems thick with negativity, despair clinging like a fog that no amount of sunlight can burn off. They are ripe with anxiety and fear, dripping with sorrow as they try to navigate this flooded wasteland. 

He gorges himself without meaning to, because it’s far too easy.
A living shadow, it is easy to slip amongst them nearly undetected; not invisible by any means, but many have grown used to ignoring the flicker of dark they catch in the corner of their eye, and if they decide to cast their entire gaze in his direction because they think they caught a glimpse of glowing red eyes he was often already gone by then, draining them dry of their emotions as he goes.
 
Tonight though, he is nearly content.

When he wends his way through the trees in the depths of the forest he is not searching for anything or anyone in particular, his steps slow, almost lazy. The soft edges of his shadowed body are nearly swallowed by the night, the unsettling glow of his red eyes the only thing that sets him apart from the dark. 

There is an uncommon thread of boredom unraveling in his chest, but he is almost afraid to follow it, almost afraid to discover what he might choose to hunt when he is already full, and so in the deepest dark he stays.