R was far away, stumbling in the wrong direction of the Cornucopia. His clothes were still smelling faintly of ash from Joan Watson's bonfire, one of his eyebrows half-singed off (he hadn't noticed. Don't give him a mirror - sun and general exposure murdered his skin, badly). Now he was wandering around trying to look and listen and smell for anything that sounded vaguely food-like, anything at all because at this point he wasn't picky.

It took him awhile to hear the sound of skipping against the sand. R's head wobbled on his neck as he tried to look up, muscles creaking.

"Rggh?"