Herbalists' Cache i who have always been unbecoming am becoming un

the words strike him hard, and bile rises quickly in his throat. he wants to say that he can relate — he can; but he thinks of absynthe and it feels like a lie, even if he doesn't count. instead he presses his muzzle more firmly against his throat. he wonders if he could suffocate him this way.
he's still for several more beats, increasing the pressure until he's sure it strains the stranger's breathing. then he steps away, settling back on his haunches again. "why," he says, expressionless, toneless. his lungs feel constricted now. he wonders if he will regret not killing the stranger; he's never killed before, has never wanted to, but he wonders now.