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The scent of fresh blood wakes him suddenly, eyes snapping wide open, quickly adapting to the moonlit night. Beside him Guilty is still sleeping, pale as a corpse and just as lovely.

He scents the air thoughtfully. It’s on the other side of nightfall, the quiet time just before the sun begins to rise - and something has just died.

It isn’t a kin. That much he knows. The smell is unmistakable.

With careful movements, Fear The Old Blood eases away from Guilty, careful not to wake her from her slumber. They’d had an... eventful day. A perfectly normal day, that any two kin becoming good friends might have.

There had even been a flower.

And now Fear The Old Blood is not quite themself. She and then he. Although they’d never bothered much with concepts of gender, both forms have very different utility. And this body is especially hungry.

In more ways than one.

So he follows the scent, through the familiar muddy pathways that wind through the mangroves, dissected by roots and rocks. There’s a hush on the world here. Even the cicadas and frogs are muted. For this is a place of death.

Old Blood has made it so.

The ground grows firmer under hoof as he stalks around one last bend and sees the source of the blood scent.

There he sees the lioness.

She’s small but well-muscled, creamy and grey with eyes that glow. Her nose is splashed with red but Fear can tell that isn’t blood. The real blood is dripping from the body of the crane, held in her strong jaws; one of the many who wait eagerly to feed at each kill.

There is something in that gaze, so direct and knowing, that stops Old Blood in his tracks. His hackles rise, head dipping in a warning of bloodied antlers. The lioness does not flinch

I know you, that gaze seems to say.

She drops the crane to the ground. Old Blood isn’t sure if it’s an offering or a warning. His head lifts up to watch the lioness warily. There’s something strange about her. Something familiar.

A rumbling growl comes from the lioness.

It’s somehow sad and pitying and motherly all at once.

How loathsome.

Fear The Old Blood remembers then; the pale doe who could walk amongst the pack unsullied, who looked down on Big Bad’s new offspring with both sadness and hope in her eyes.

Something unspoken passes between them as Old Blood stands frozen. Peep’s gaze is somehow as visceral as a touch, meaning even more than any words can communicate.

The moment comes to an end.

The lioness dips her head in farewell and turns to leave, fading away into the shadows.

It takes Fear The Old Blood a long time to unlock his limbs and step towards the crane. White feathers splattered with blood. Wings spread limply. The message is clear.

He dips his head and grabs the bird by the neck. Waste not, want not. After all, Guilty would be eating for extra now. They had been blessed.