Lion Head Mesa drivolat vroz

Finally, finally he was given a meal. Over-ripe fruit is tossed from the plinth above, landing near to his face. He is thankful for it, but more-so for the scattered clouds and the dropping humidity; and when Drusk rises, he takes to the fruit with an animate greed. Nothing remains after a few noisy moments of consumption.

Overhead, upon the stone slab that serves as the viewing space for those of the palace, there are a new set of eyes watching him; kohl-lined, bright. Mazoi flank this individual on either side and fellahin stand just behind, heeled, with large boughs as carried shade for the woman—yes, it is a woman who stares at him now.

Not the Tiger from before.

He rumbles, Yeri vod-khasar akkat vitihirat adakhat. Qemmemmo.... The words are slurred together in some aspects, and crackle from his dry tongue despite the pulp of the fruit giving him some desperately needed fluids.