Ludwig grabbed the food from the table, and for a moment, his instincts took over, munching and crunching on bone and meat alike.
The hut smelled like grease and smoke soaked into wood, old warmth that clung to everything, even the air. The table was rough beneath his palms, scarred by knives and mugs and years of use.
He didn't even sit properly. He just leaned in and ate like the body demanded it, jaw working too hard, teeth cracking through cartilage and bone as if that was normal. The taste was… wrong for his memory of taste. Too rich. Too satisfying. It wasn't refined or subtle. It was immediate, animal-simple, and it hit his stomach like a fist closing around hunger and squeezing it quiet.
