Ace blinks at him in confusion, once, then steadies a bit. Right. Knives. She draws her handy little bootknife and flays the dead deer open from belly to throat, cracking the ribs along the way. The smell, rich and heady, catches her at the base of the brain and reminds her that she's very, very hungry.

The blade is buried in the dirt, and Ace worries contentedly at deer liver.

So very good.