A bitter wind swept through the small patch of brittle grass, frozen in the crisp winter. It bit through the fur of the wanderer. His head bent low, to block the brutalist aspects of the wind. He was hungry, for his usual food had been decimated by such cruel nature. Even now, the frost-bitten grasses he walked over were no better than the rotten roots and useless berries.
Just as he wanted to give up, he stumbled across perhaps the most welcome sight. A flutter of thick, succulent leaves. A small branch poked through the thin layer of crusted grasses. The insulation of the doomed grass had preserved and nurtured the small branch.
But all the wanderer knew was that this was his chance. It was there for him. As he indulged in the leaves, all he could imagine was how this was the sweetest, most satisfying meal he had ever had thus far.
