One of them was me; Atrox

[atrox]

hangman hooded, softly swinging; don't close the coffin yet, I'm alive

The foul mood that slithers beneath the surface does not leave easily these days.

It exists constantly, a nagging, biting sensation that he can never quite get to go away. He does his best to just ignore it—to find humor in these dull sort of interactions and amusement in the odd—but it does not always scratch the itch. It does not always leave him content and he finds he instead hungers for more.

So when the obscenely colored mare smirks and responds in what he can only assume is gibberish, he finds that his long-waning patience snaps. It’s been too long, he reasons, but really, he needs no reasoning. Instead, he leaps from the tree in a fluid motion, launching himself toward the mare with claws out.

Something thrills through him as he grabs for her, as his jaws snap and as finds the throat.

Perhaps this would ease the ache within him that hungers for more.

Or at least it would stave off the growl in his belly.

Either would suffice.

ATROX | THE PANTHER KING