For such selfish creatures, he had to hand it to the pickiest of them all. Gluttons like him wouldn’t care for what cuts of meat that they devoured, as long as they had the required sustenance to trek on for the next day. Whether the organs within their hands still pulsed with the ghosting of circulation or if it had seemed the muscles had grown rigid with the passage of time, they would simply make due.
He had consumed the remains of a woman no less than thirty, with the curliest of midnight strands as a crown atop of pale skin. Meticulously drawn eyeliner where no pigment of irises remained. For one life to leave, many would have normally fed, but the Jackal took it upon himself to finish the task. And this had been hours prior.
His body, no less pungent with the scent of carrion, lay sprawled out atop of a bench nestled on the outskirts of the local park. No threat to any, though inquiring – and worrisome – minds did happen upon him to ask if he was alright. The ghoul hadn’t answered, more or less transfixed on the idea of rest; like a reptile attempting to digest a meal while lying upon a flat, heated rock. There wasn’t much difference after all.
❝Th’ …fuck—❞ A groan reverberated, somewhat akin to a low growl. Surely he was becoming irritated, but as he turned over, his body only met with the ground instead; christening with an audible ‘thunk!’
❝No more …potatoes—eh, nah. …’nuff… pigeons...❞