Carathon chewed hungrily on his meat. It seemed hard, tough, but he was so hungry he didn't care. Looking at the people around him, he quickly rubbed some spit into the meat and lobbed it into the fire. No-one noticed, and when he drew out the burning meat, none blinked an eyelid. He let it cool, blew hard upon it then ate. It was softer and sweeter.
Carathon was not sure why he had disappeared from the group. He had been to the river, he knew, and he had washed, bathed fully clothed, eager to please. His smell was gone now, and his hair was a lovely shade of brownish red, shoulder length. He still wore rags, rather worse for their dipping. But all in he seemed to be quite handsome.
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If nature made you a giver, you are born with your hands and heart open, and though your hands may sometimes be empty, your heart is always full, and you can give things out of that.
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