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It was still deluging come morning. She'd tried to wake up Mal, because she was hungry, and a rainy morning was the perfect time to fish.

But Mal lacked the discipline of a sailor and wouldn't fucking get up. He didn't want to go out in the rain. The shitehawk was contented to let her do the hunting while he lazed about, apparently.

Well, she'd eat her fill then! If she happened to have any spare, she might let him snack on it.

...

Who the hell was she kidding? She had no intention of sharing with a lazy idiot. She kicked him on the way out.

Quickly the onpour soaked her to the bone. The Cur didn't mind. Out at sea, a good rain might be the only bath you got for weeks. And water had always felt more like home than dirt. Even after this long ashore, she still felt landsickness at times, the solid ground beneath her feet unnatural after a lifetime at sea. Food wouldn't fix that, but it would make her happier. So she followed a game trail downhill, to freshwater.

A lake was close. Pausing on the edge, she watched the shadows for a while — rain and mud masked some scents, and the direction of others. But nothing else came to drink except for a couple of deer and a flock of ducks. None with glowing blue eyes.

Well... safe enough then. But she'd stay cautious. Loping over to a fallen tree that stretched out over the water, she balanced atop its slippery surface as easily as going aloft in a brigantine. Where the branches stretched out like rigging, fish would no doubt gather. She set about her task of breakfast.