He hadn’t eaten in weeks. Or was it days? Was one unit of measure, one increment in time, the same as the other anyway? Whatever the case, amid the gore, he [i]gorged[/i]. He [i]fed[/i]. He [i]drank[/i]. He satiated. He nourished. One verb was certainly the same as the other. However, he needed [i]more[/i]. Hunger. Thirst. Flesh. Blood. The fur was spat out, of course. He had sharp teeth, yes. Yet, admittedly, his former incisors might have made this feast easier. 

Skin ripped away, hanging from lips, blood drips. Not a pretty sight by any means. A Ratman wasn’t a pretty thing. Only…a Veshkei was always different from the Verm species. A special breed. A superior breed. A more pleasing thing to see. Not to many but to some. This one? He had since shaken the form of the furred Ratkin. He had the tail, he had the horns, he had resemblance of the former in his face, but his was a new shape.

His teeth were like a human’s in comparison, if sharp as a shark’s. His skin was nearly barren of fur. Of hair, even. He was like a hybrid. But whatever he was, whoever he was, his insides were still his. His system was still Ratkin. And the Rat, the rat, was known to eat just about anything, just about any meat, and to live with it.

Rat. Ratman. Ratkin. A few terms with different definitions. His was different from other Shkei even. Yet he still had arms. Legs. A heart. Breath. Feet. Teeth. Nails. Stomach. Cock. Tail. So was it the rodent’s different gastric cocktail that did it? Digestive tract and trail that made him less susceptible to the toxins and whatever-it-is that may make him sick from his hunt. Different species of course, different breeds, different dynamics, different boars, different rats. [i]But only one me…[/i]

Another thought. Another memory. Triggered from nothing. But not spurned. Didn’t interrupt his meal. Or…was the blood in the memory? A vision in his vision of yesterday. Of the past in the present. Of purpose unspent. Of a future unearned. [i]Stupid. Quit thinking it.[/i] Whatever he was, whoever he is, Veron Blacktear surely had the same protective stomach, the same digestive system as his previous life…right?

Moments later, Veron had found his nourishment, whether from the blood or the fur, the flesh or the bone, one or both, none or all at once. Hell, maybe it was the life he was eating, the death he was drinking. Time would tell. Slowly, he rose, but not lazily. Reinvigorated already, or was that what they said to be the placebo effect?

He turned to face her, the spider, to take in her presence all over again. Abomination. Maybe. They said the same of him. Of his Ratkin. Whether Veshkei or Verm. It didn’t matter to them. They were all vermin. 

And Veron was the worst of them. 

He wiped blood from his lips with the back of his hand. Debated whether to scratch the itch behind his eyepatch.[i] No. Leave it. It will feed and drink alongside the falling of the leaves.[/i] Whatever that meant. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it meant everything. Maybe it means as much as his own existence between these trees…or the meaningless conversation between a rat and a spider. And another stupid question. His was toneless. His expression was vacant. 

[color=8493ca]“Have you ever looked in the mirror?”[/color]