It was well past nightfall when they'd finally settled around a low fire, with thick slabs of deer meat grilling away quietly on a pair of flat stones they'd scrubbed as clean as they could. They'd hid their campfire behind a copse of pine trees, next to a pile of abandoned orange PVC pipes, in itchy, dry grass. The stars plastered the sky, the lights on radio towers winked on the horizon.

Hawk reclined against the pile of pipes heavily, eyes shut. "I can't believe you were gonna turn your damn nose up at this," he muttered. "Findin' a deer that fresh and whole is as lucky as we could've got."

"Y'donno where it's�been," Teige grumbled.

"As if you know the life story of everythin'�you�ever ate," Hawk retorted, not looking up. They lapsed into silence, tired and hunched, dark circles under their eyes.

In the silence the radio seemed a lot louder, nattering on about the Cynn of Aetheri and his denial of his country's connection with growing cells of angry non-humans. Teige fumed quietly for a moment.

"Fuck, man," he said finally, gritting his teeth, "can we at least turn off the fucken radio?"

"I like the noise," Hawk growled, still not looking up.

"The noise, yeah," Teige sneered. "Sure. Couldn't at least've found us a music station, eh? One that doesn't make folks like you or me or the Order out to be the devil's sons?"