Three weeks of being in that prison he called his home. Three weeks of hunger - the fleshbags barely sustaining him enough to subdue the drive to get more.
He’d had enough; it had taken him over.
He had to hunt it himself.
Word must have spread to those who knew him that he could only be satisfied by consuming blood and flesh - consuming the meal - rather than just creating it.
Head held high, ignorant to the gasps and the shocked comments from the trolls who had been fortunate enough to miss this news, Draal stomps into the warm glow of Trollmarket. Nostrils flare as he pauses, looking around a little at a place now unfamiliar to him, before dropping his head to the ground.
He’s led to the staircase to the surface, following closely behind a surface raider, and into the cool, fresh air of the night. It almost acted like a catalyst, flipping another of the many switches in his afflicted head that forced him to descend into this hell; as clawed hands spread out, arms widen, and body lowers, Draal continues up the concrete and continues to track the scent.
A scent which became stronger, and less mixed among the others. The scent of his first true victim.
He sneaks between the bushes and the cover of the trees of the front gardens that lined the quiet street with curled lips and a sharp snarl. The fleshbag’s days were numbered, yet he was too engrossed in his machines to look up from it.
