Silverlight Terrace we devoured the gods

the day inches to mid-afternoon with the aching slowness of blood beneath a bruise as he makes his way; slowly — as frustratingly slow as a tortoise — plagued by the ache of muscles and the rising tide of exhaustion. it has ebbed a bit since he got some fresh water in his system after trial and error, but it is not enough. his stomach aches and yearns for meat; for substance but without the strength to hunt on his own he is left to search for scraps like a beggar.

there is no pride to hinder him; and not necessarily any humility ...there is only the need to survive and the will to do whatever it took.

it is the scent of blood and meat that draws him like a hungry moth to a flame. upon his approach a small flock of ravens crowd 'round the mountain goat split open by some other predator that has abandoned it. they take flight at his quick, stumbling approach; a low possessive growl building in his chest.

he snaps at the nearest bird; a show of bravado.

salvia floods his mouth and he takes a greedy bite of the meat; tough and chewy. it had been abandoned long enough for the corpse to grow cold and stiff in rigor mortis. he tears another chunk before he's even finished chewing the first; giving into his glutton desires.