Two eights, three eights, four eights and counting. More every day. Come down from sky in made things like a hoor cocoon that pisses fire as it falls.
Family come from all around, long way away, come without being called, heard the noise. Cousins of cousins of cousins who almost smell right stalk my ground. Fathers of uncles say it is like war-time and to show patience.
So many of us, no normal prey left. All are hungry and tempers short. But more cocoons fall and more eights of standing talking prey come every day. Soon we will eat well.