Forever drifting in an aimless wander, slaughtering someone, something, or following its escape until he lost their trail, Moath was doing as he had always done. Drifting from killing spree to killing spree. 

His last victim, a mothered fox, was a tough food. She had fought, and fought, screaming and kicking, but his muse outweighed her. His muscles outdid her own. And his distinction with reality was far gone, far, far, away. 
The fox lost, and was eaten. And so the premature children within her were spared a painful death, and left to cool and perish in the field of massacre.

Tufted fur hung ragged on him, left askew from his bout with the Fox, and another piece of him was hanging. It was the left flask of fur atop the top half of his left forelimb. It was still glistening the remaining blood of the Fox, only barely dried. His own blood mingled with it. And it did not bother him, as he walked through the Watch.

The it was almost too soon for her to be so bloated. Moath knee when living foods were with little Lifes in them. It wasnt just instincts that screamed it only in a way Moath could understand, but it was just how he could read them. They were fat. There was no food that ate that much besides Pig. 

Asatira was not Pig.

His gargantuan body remained still, almost as though to keep her pacified, but he had no such concept. There were simply no strings pulling him at the moment. 

She reminded him of the Fox food. 
But she also did not.

She was his own, in some how, some way, and though she did not carry Blood in her as all Melonii had, some band of memory prevented him from outright killing her. 

And now, it seemed, the spawn would be protected under her, as well. As they were hers-
and she was His.

He said nothing- as always.