between oziah's jaws sat a floundering catfish, its squishy gills flapping and begging for oxygen. he reveled in the struggle of the hunt — feeling death between his teeth. crushing something smaller than you, or even larger depending on the animal; the way his blood spikes when the last light leaves the eyes of his prey. he chased it, that feeling, everywhere he went.

the fish fell limp after thirty seconds. oziah counted. he dropped it at his feet, smoothed down the gills, and flipped it upon its back; his claw raked cleanly through the belly and water erupted from the wound, spilling pink fluid all over the sand and gravel.

he lapped at it as if it were from the teat of a goddess. salty, metallic, fishy. just the way he liked it.

his meal would be enjoyed in peace — so he thought.

it was silent until it wasn't.

oziah didn't move. his eyes locked upon the individual that came hurling from the woods like a bat out of hell, judgment seeping into the scowl that bled across his features.

what kind of coward ran away from wasps?

blinking incredulously, the man grunted and reached a paw over his kill in order to protect it, in case this was all just a ploy for thievery. what on god's green earth are you doin', boy?