The blood of prey is utterly vulgar. On days when that foul-smelling liquid gets on his fur, he spends hours at the stream washing it off. He even changed his hunting style because of it—a clean, precise method that strikes the opponent's weak point to end them instantly. He has stuck to that method ever since, yet his foolish wife goes around covered in blood day in and day out. No matter how many times he tells him, that damn eccentric hunting instinct never changes. What an insolent wife. Still, he couldn't just leave his blood-soaked wife alone. Rasp, rasp. Every time his broad feline tongue licked through the fur, the scent of blood spread through his mouth. The fishy, dull, and disgusting taste unique to the blood of herbivores stuck to his tongue. Fuck, I'll never get used to this taste. If you come back covered in blood again, I'll personally fix your hunting style. I'll carve the lesson into your very bones, so look forward to it.