Dread finished his meal only sloppily, glancing around him again. Fins were on end, spines erect, as if hackles on a dog: ember eyes searched the treeline suspiciously.

There was nothing there--oh, a few birds, the scattering deer in the distance--but the magic came smoothly enough, this time, and he was safe. Nothing was coming for his prey.

He looked back down to the deer carcass, tearing at it, wolfing down the last of it in jerky movements: throwing back his head to gulp each bit down.

When he'd finished, he decided what he wanted next: water. But he was not about to find that here--not without wandering beneath the trees, and he did not like that idea one bit. He wanted wings; he wanted flight. He wasn't going to cripple himself against potential foes by wandering a thick forest.

With a grunt, Dread turned, waddling into the tunnel, tail twitching along behind him.