He has never forgot the first hunt.
Never forgot the first bite of the prey he slew himself. The taste of blood on his tongue, sharp and intense scent of the animal, the way his teeth were sinking into the flesh.
He learnt to prepare his meat i the future, over the brimming fire.
But the taste of blood still lingered in his senses, the taste of youth and freedom. It would be foolish from him to not try it even now.
His fangs tore the morsel of freshly hunted makrak. It’s good. It’s natural. It’s HIM. Why change that?
skekMal inhaled the deep scent of the thick forest; the moss mixed with damp earth and the rain that just washed Thra. His tail thumped against the ground, with content, as last droplets fell on his unmasked face.
This wasn’t as good as hunt. But good of its own. To feel that he is part of this place, which belonged to him, yet he never fully was rooted in. In these moments, when everything was soaked in water, and the branches of the trees covered the bleak suns, he felt more bound to this forest. He was like those trees, eternal, with his feet dug into the soil, which was giving him prey, each day and each night.
His fists clenched, talons buring in his own skin, but not drawing blood.
This was a promising start of a good day. Good for hunt. Good for the kill. Good to live it through.