Perhaps Fjallraven had grown too used to the care with which Magnus provided, minus the emotional caring. She was trying, she really was, but if Fjallraven admitted to herself she wasn't trying very hard. So many times she had come out empty handed and usually with some new wound to add to her other injuries that hunting anything left a bad taste in her mouth. Not to mention the fact that when she wandered too far away she would grow frightened if the world grew quiet in those moments when bird call became nonexistent because she would think of Reaver and Jaidah trying to pin her between them and their teeth ripping into her. The scar on her shoulder would throb, an invisible pain that she felt deep in her soul, and then she would go huddle by the den and pretend she wasn't huddling so Magnus wouldn't get mad at her weakness.

Fjall is excited for the taste of pheasant, her belly grumbling in approval at the sight, and she frowns hard when Magnus snatches his prizes off the ground and waltzes right past her. She spins on her tiny hips and, like a puppy, bounces up alongside of him with her ears pricked and another smile on her lips. Maybe they were going inside to eat. She would clean up the aftermath, she decides, because she wanted to prove to Magnus she was worthy of being in his den. She wasn't a drain on him. Even if she really was.

Magnus tosses the dead animals into the den and Fjallraven is all set to slip past him into the den when he stops her with his words. She turns her charcoal muzzle towards him, her eyebrows wrinkling the soft gray that lines her eyes in a moment of obvious confusion as her golden eyes snap from the den to him. What did he mean? Was he going to starve her? Her belly gave a loud growl of protest at the thought and her tail slowly sinks between her legs at the look of disapproval on his face. It was always there, really, but never this severe. Maybe the pine cone wasn't enough.

She glances at the pine cone now with a forlorn look. Could you even eat a pine cone? Maybe.. but she didn't think it would taste very good. "But," she begins to protest about the hunting with a scared look on her face but falls silent at his extreme look. He grabs the pheasant once more and starts walking away with her eyes trailing him with a soulful look of sorrow, as if he just broke her tiny little heart because she disappointed him. She wilts before him yet the moment he moves away she follows behind him, silent and shadow-like.

He leads her to the beach and she glances in surprise as he leaps onto a rock and deposits the pheasant, but he was serious. He wasn't going to let her have it. She was going to have to hunt and Fjall was confused as she glances at the ocean. There were no hares here to hunt. She trails him again at his hip, her shoulder bumping into him because she found his presence comforting even if hers was pesky, and stops at the waters edge. "Are we going swimming?" She states, her voice revealing her displeasure at the idea they would go swim when she was hungry and her belly, once more, grumbles in protest.