The whispering leaves of the sequoia trees overhead fill the air around you with their song. Not many remain, the vast majority having been scorched away by the sun's heightened intensity since the plague's onset, but the few still rustling gently against the hot breeze bring a sullen comfort to an otherwise... unsettling evening.
A weak crescent moon cast its wan rays upon two silhouettes creeping through the wooded respite. Haughty words from a flame-touched figure ignite the beginning of a brief exchange, while the bright sun-star next to him answers with uncertainty; the wind picks up, and for a moment you both pause, feeling a shift in your surroundings as you get the unnerving sensation of being watched.
Yet you see nothing, you scent no one - until suddenly you catch a whiff of something scrumptious, a large weasel recently deceased and ripe for the taking. It appears to have perished by snake-bite after a brief skirmish, the width of the fang indentations denoting a serpent yet too small to consume its victim - which would explain why it lay whole and uneaten.
The smell is delicious. Your stomach growls.
You really just can't resist a taste, can you?
No.
You can't.
You move toward the carcass.