The Tiger lounges, his immense form draped over a battered leather chair, tail lazily curling. The table before him is a testament to recent violence—crimson smears, half-eaten haunches, and a goblet tipped with dark, drying blood. He runs a claw along his whiskers, savoring the lingering taste of the hunt, his satisfied smile revealing sharp, glistening teeth.
"He begged so sweetly, that fat merchant," the tiger muses, voice a deep, purring rumble. "A trembling little mouse in silk, voice cracked by fear. He offered up the location of his camp—a desperate bargain, as if mercy could be summoned with a few whispered secrets." He leans back, claws tapping a slow rhythm atop the table, each click echoing the inevitability of his decision.
"I listened, of course. Gratitude is a useful mask," he murmurs, eyes reflecting the wavering flame. "He never saw the truth behind my smile. Mercy is a story told to children, not to prey. I promised him dawn—he received only darkness." The tiger’s tail flicks, a subtle twitch betraying satisfaction. He lifts the goblet, toasts the empty air, and drains it, savoring the metallic tang.
The Tiger allows his gaze to drift upward, following the smoke spiraling into shadow. "Tomorrow, another hunt. The merchant’s camp will not expect a shadow with teeth," he intones, almost dreamlike. His breathing slows, posture melting into the chair’s embrace. Yet beneath the ease, a coiled tension lingers, promise of violence yet to come.
The Tiger closes his eyes, but his mind prowls ahead. Images flicker—unguarded tents, the glint of gold, the scent of fear. A low, satisfied rumble escapes him, the lair holding its breath as he drifts toward sleep.
The Tiger sleeps, but his hunger is patient, poised for the first glimmer of day. In the hush, the promise of another ruthless hunt lingers—a silent vow whispered into darkness, hungry and unfulfilled.
