Screw them. The wind rattled through fingerbone tree-branches and along a grey avenue of leaf litter and forest mould. Screw them all. Muttering zephyrs found their mark: a xylophone rib cage, festooned still with strips of meat; the black bloodstained fur of the young but haggard wolf, cracking open a shoulderblade and sniffing the contents. Caprica had found her peace, the bones a perfect defence against a world of wolves she hated and utterly rejected. Eventually, it would be impenetrable. Not now. Today, it smelled fresh and raw and enticing - the horse she had killed just a few hours previously, ripped apart to comprise the final section of a wall, which met other, similarly gruesome walls; and was topped with an unfinished hide roof. It was a strange construction; in its incompleteness it resembled more a heap than a house. But it was to be her dwelling place, when it had served its final purpose. She lit a fire beneath her cooking pot, tossed in some marrow and an ugly smile spread across her severely elegant face, watching the water turn red. The pungent meat would not pass her lips, she thirsted for a more savoury flesh.
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