[ the beast's great head hangs with an eerie stillness, but through the link of mental conversation it's a hint of melancholy that steers it. the reminder of warm meat and vegetable broth in his hands, cooked rather than the raw he'd mentioned earlier. if there's something he misses when it comes to real, human-made food, it was this simple dish. the kind that would be served to him by a woman with a sweet face, grey streaks in her hair, pulled into a bun.
it's not much of a choice. he adds. it's my biology, now. ]
no subject
it's not much of a choice. he adds. it's my biology, now. ]