who we are and all that we're trying to be
Claws slid easily over loam, as they would flesh and blood, carving entropy and acrimony into the dunes instead of lives. If the thought was disappointing, he gave no thought, attention fixating on the amount of debris some moron buried under walls of sand. He used his enhanced power of scent for a moment, sniffing at the loam and silt, intending to discover if there were others shoved beneath by a lazy fool, and when he found naught, returned to the growing pile.
Considering his next step, he could nearly hear the grin established by the stranger, embedded in their response. He shook his head, and then thought better to judge it, considering how frequently he’d picked up stray alley cats. While pondering over his reply, or wondering if he should just fall back into more silence, he gave a single stomp of his front paws. Extended from their armaments came flames, rising, falling, smoldering, and devouring over the refuse, the trash, entangling it within their embers, stoked by instinctual soullessness.
Then he sat back on his haunches, to watch, to ensure it maintained control, and only tilting his head slightly to the panther. Did people leave him alone? Once – once they had seen his intimidating features from the shadows, skulking along borderlines, menacingly chasing down his opponents, adversaries, and enemies, and stayed clear. Here was far more different – but so was he. So with a long-suffering sigh, he granted the answer. No. They sought him out at every turn – for training, for advice (gods knew why), for amusements, for some level of sanctity in a world that provided little. And maybe, because he was willing to extend those shelters and sanctuaries, they did the same to him in return.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
