I don't eat them. That's rich folk food. Bums that live under bridges eat what dregs they can get, heh.

[She gave up simply poking and put several pieces of driftwood together, extending a single claw and gouging a little divet in the dryeest piece. She was fine, but she was sick of being cold and wet, and that overwhelmed her bad mood just enough. She pointed to a bunch of straw next to it and grunted.]

Put that on top. Gonna try to get this burning. Might as well not be soaking. [Mutter mutter.] Never heard of a Fastitocalon or whatever that is. Maybe you're from another part of the world. Haven't ever left the islands.

[As soon as she could, she'd take a sturdy stick and shove it into the hole, starting to spin it between her palms, blow over it.]