You have to tell yourself it's just dinner. Remind yourself it will taste amazing later. Abby had gathered all of her herbs, a rather fat mushroom, and a few berries. She'd prepared a hole in the earth and filled it with little bits of dried grasses and birch bark, stones piled atop that to trap the heat. The tinder would smolder when she got back to light it. Her fire plough rested against the birch tree behind her, a chunk of ice near it if she so chose to use that method. Everything was ready for when she returned. Abby made sure to cover the hole with a piece of hard bark to keep anyone running through from tripping into it. As long as they didn't stand on the hole for a bit, even a large creature wouldn't get their hoof caught. Satisfied, the doe trotted off toward the heart of the First Forest.

It was a risky business, hunting. Even riskier still was hunting in a forest dominated by herbivores. How many would be nervous knowing that she ate meat? Would they think she would easily kill them too? Abby didn't know, or want to find out. A bait pile was meticulously spread on the snow. She picked up a stone and set it on a fallen log. Careful aim would be the difference between dinner and none at all. After that, the doe sat and waited.

Hours went by, only sparrows and songbirds to speak of. Soon, though, an average-looking dove floated down from the trees to land on the bait. It ate a bit, obviously happy to just stay there even though Abby stood up not far away. Why did the birds have no fear here? She didn't want to know, really, because it made her feel worse about killing this plump little animal. The doe gently picked her foot up. Taut muscles released as she sent the rock flying.

The sickening sound of stone thudding against flesh let the doe know she had hit her mark. Blood spattered the snow. The dove lay stunned on the ground, wing cruelly broken and ribs cracked. Carefully, the doe picked up the bird by the head and gave it a little shake as it tried to struggle. The peace-symbol's breath stopped against her tongue as the spine let out a weak 'pop.' Abby kicked up snow to disguise the bloody spot and turned away. The dead bird bounced up and down in-between her lips as she bounded back to the small camp she had earlier prepared.

White feathers blended into the snow, but occasionally blew around. One was stuck to the edge of Abby's lip as she tended the stoked fire, trying to will it to burn down to embers. The little pink body to her right had been plucked and disemboweled, then stuffed with the earlier-gathered ingredients. The bird's heart, liver, and gizzard were placed back inside as well. They would lend to the flavor. All other bits, as well as the head, were tossed at the edge of camp for anything that wanted them. Abby usually found them gone in the morning.

At last the little blaze was reduced to hot coals and rocks. The small bird sizzled against them as Abby lay it down inside. Quickly the doe washed her mouth with snow to rid it of the taste of raw flesh. The blue and gold had little tolerance for the flavor, whereas others probably liked it.

The scents of rosemary and other herbs drifted on the air, along with the smell of roasting meat. The doe carefully tended her embers with a twig, unaware of anything but that little fire and her slowly-cooking dinner.