05-26-2021, 11:26 PM
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// gore warning
In the shade of the town’s mossy square, Ximen lounged to rest his body after a grueling hunt in the small hours of the morning. But there was too much commotion to sleep, even back in his home, once everyone woke up. So he occupied himself with a fun sort of “training exercise” using black paint.
He held out one paw at a time as he telekinetically colored his nails. Unlike other felines, cheetahs couldn’t retract their claws; Ximen, regardless of his other mutations, was no exception to this rule. Everyone would see his nails, anyway, so might as well make them worth looking at. Who said masculine men couldn’t be pretty?
He licked his teeth. Almost done, on the last paw. Then he could eat while the paint dried.
He feasted from a plate of gore. Organs plucked from a multitude of carcasses formed a tower of bleeding meat atop the gleaming steel. Two livers, a heart, and three kidneys of various sizes. All salted. No other preparation; the work of harvesting them all—breaking open chest cavities, ripping out the bland lungs, surgically cutting them out from the rest of the meat—from the fresh-kill pile counted as cooking.
Counted to him, anyway. He waved his right paw, squinting over the drying paint, and telekinetically summoned a kidney. Must’ve been from a rabbit, because he ate it in one gulp.
Ximen held his paw closer to his face. His nails felt heavier, though he couldn’t say whether this observation was true or simply psychosomatic. “Hm, looks finished,” he mumbled to himself. And then chomped on the heart, taking a bite out like it was an apple.
In the shade of the town’s mossy square, Ximen lounged to rest his body after a grueling hunt in the small hours of the morning. But there was too much commotion to sleep, even back in his home, once everyone woke up. So he occupied himself with a fun sort of “training exercise” using black paint.
He held out one paw at a time as he telekinetically colored his nails. Unlike other felines, cheetahs couldn’t retract their claws; Ximen, regardless of his other mutations, was no exception to this rule. Everyone would see his nails, anyway, so might as well make them worth looking at. Who said masculine men couldn’t be pretty?
He licked his teeth. Almost done, on the last paw. Then he could eat while the paint dried.
He feasted from a plate of gore. Organs plucked from a multitude of carcasses formed a tower of bleeding meat atop the gleaming steel. Two livers, a heart, and three kidneys of various sizes. All salted. No other preparation; the work of harvesting them all—breaking open chest cavities, ripping out the bland lungs, surgically cutting them out from the rest of the meat—from the fresh-kill pile counted as cooking.
Counted to him, anyway. He waved his right paw, squinting over the drying paint, and telekinetically summoned a kidney. Must’ve been from a rabbit, because he ate it in one gulp.
Ximen held his paw closer to his face. His nails felt heavier, though he couldn’t say whether this observation was true or simply psychosomatic. “Hm, looks finished,” he mumbled to himself. And then chomped on the heart, taking a bite out like it was an apple.