Twigs, still soft and new (pliable as puppies) splinter to give her the green inside, sweet marrow from the bone. Tear out the meat in strips, tie them end to end until it's something of a string. She could make jewellry from it. Maybe a leash. This is the closest to peace Miasma has had-- would ever want. A creek babbles nearby, a short divergence from one of the many rivers that cross and cradle Alteron. When the wind is right, she can smell the roses where her love lives. Sometimes she sees her father slinking through the shadows. Ink hasn't been seen since Oukoku-Kai, and her sisters are probably dead in the dirt-- like that muskrat she'll dig up soon enough. Of all the assorted bones and body parts Miasma owns, those of her littermates are what she most covets.

  She may yet have the chance to collect.