She wasn't hungry. Didn't need this.
Didn't need it to fill her belly, anyways.
But life at Pookastone Scowle was goddamn dull, and there wasn't nothing she did that could take the itch out of her skin or the flame out of her gut. She hated it. Somewhere deep in her chest was the nexus of this horrible, awful feeling - the one that made her want to almost be social or some other kind of elk shit - and she just couldn't find a way to claw it out. Couldn't wash it out. Rolled in the snow, even broke into the lagoon once, hoping to rid herself of that goddamn feminine stink. It worked…for a day. Maybe.
So she did it again, and then she rubbed up against the charred back of the weird, dark place, and she lurked around the borders. Scenting. Sensing. Watching, waiting. God, she missed this thrill.