Bird's giant Urshul head is buried in the spirit's deteriorating bulk.
He does not howl like Tiny or joke like Emily. He is silent has he rips and tears at the Jaggling's essence, absorbing it into himself.
Where Fa-Ninna was born, the skyline was dominated by the smokestacks of oil refineries. The air and soil smelled like oil processing, the water tasted of it. Like the whole world had been dipped in oil and set alight to burn away the impurities.
That's what this tastes like. Somehow, it reminds Bird of home.
The Irraka, filled to the brim, sits back and licks his gore-flecked chops, still silent. Every-watchful eyes find each pack mate in turn as they take part in the completion of the hunt.