While she has been feasting with greater intensity, Skellig has been busy gathering driftwood and other dried sticks into a pile, binding it with cord that they had brought with them in their pack.

Also, he has found himself a hunk of dried kelp, crisp from the baking sun where the tides had laid it upon a rock, salted by the sea.

When he has deemed it 'safe' to approach her again (he can hear her muttering, understands the words she is speaking) he wanders back in her direction, bundle of firewood over one shoulder, their pack over the other - mouth full of the dried seaweed, chewing happily.

An eyebrow is raised at the meat, and he smirks.

"I would be honored to share your kill." A pause. "But I will cook it, first."