(Just a bit of fun. Set in a tolkeinish-medieval universe. Feel free to join in.)
Tana pulled the last few remnants of the Rana-bird's cooked meat from the stick with his rear teeth, before tossing the stick into the fire. He licked his chops and wiped his muzzle clean with the back of one prehensile paw, and tossed another branch on the fire.
Darkness was gathering around the stone towers and buildings surrounding him, turning the arched windows into so many empty pits of blackness. A chilly damp wind ruffled his dark grey fur.
His fox ears had picked up no sounds of danger that evening, the place was nearly silent. It was errie, compared to the noise of a living forest at night. After a glance at the rubble-strew streets, Tana settled back on his haunches and pulled the bow from his shoulders. He set it aside, but within easy reach. He had learned the hard way to be cautious in the last few months, he was far outside his home territory, beyond the boundaries of any map he'd ever seen and the reckoning of the sages of the White Towers.
He took the quiver from his left shoulder, pulling out a bundle of long straight sticks he'd cut earlier in the wood outside the city. from the leather bag at his side he pulled the green-feathered wings of the Rana-bird, and with a small knife set about turning the feathers into fletching for new arrows.