Sentience Sparked

It hasn’t decided.

Greater than the visceral pleasure of crushing things in its jaws, however, is the promise of more. Association requiring more than the use of its physical form is a novelty, still, feeding not only its perpetually ravenous stomach but the twitching, unfurling tendrils of sentience it doesn’t yet know how to utilize. Magnificent, he says, and for a moment, it is acutely aware of the shape of its body.

M̸̼͔̼̈́̈́͊a̴͍̝̘͐͛̚ǵ̸̘̼̝͊n̸̢͔̻̈́̚̕i̵̼̞̦̿͛͐f̸̟͚̙̐̓͝i̴̦̟̟͆͘͝c̵̢̻̙̾̀͝e̴̼̫͙̿̕͠n̵̠͇͍̈́͑̕t̸̢̪͉̾͒͝.̸͔͉̝̒͊͋

The word is clumsy on its tongue. More complicated than the fleeting speech it’s managed before, it would perhaps be unintelligible were it not simple repetition. Still it sits, alert and watching, second cheese curl swiftly devoured.

If this miserable thing of flesh and suppressed emotion chooses to stand in its way again and again, surely he must seek the conflict. Surely he must want to hurt.

R̸͈̭̹̰͍̹̟͕̻̖̙͑̕ͅu̴̢̢̹̠̬̦̰̲̞͐̌͐̎̒͌̋̀̕n̴̨̗̺̮̺̱̼̈́.

I don’t know what to do with this much positive attention, soooo

question starters

Eyeless gaze shifted with the twitch and turn of mangled ears. A convoluted tangle of odors wafted from this little one bold enough to speak, bold enough to draw its attention, stolen claw foolishly named and drawn against it. Chronic misery marinated the human form like nothing else--and he spent a lifetime choking on it.

Delicious, truly, though not made to last. Rows of teeth like jagged and splintered bone were displayed in a grin promising devastation. Not in retribution, not to right any past wrongs, but for the nauseating pleasure of it. Warily it circled in search of the slightest misstep. Any opening it could use to take hold of this pretty thing and tear him apart.

The latter, the creature knows and is envious. 

No closer. Thick muzzle is thrust against the crinkly bag, too thick to fit within, and it gave a great huff of frustration. Truly, the snack does nothing for its stomach, but it isn’t the sustenance it demands. It wants the gratification of flavor. Iridescent form mangles and twists before sapphire eyes; inhuman groans of sweetest agony herald the snap and bend of warped limbs. When black ooze has ceased to drip from its fur it sits back on haunches made anthropomorphic and grabs the bag in monstrous hands. Orange dust glows on its fingers when it draws a cheese curl out and tosses it between snapping jaws.

Spoken like a master to a dog and the thing would curl lip to show teeth, were they not on display by design. One heavy step after another and it drinks in the promise of something sharp dancing in shimmering red. Like dust motes in the light the first kindling of fear elicits a shudder in long, thick limbs.

Better to keep this man with a little bird heart alive so that it might pump terror through his veins longer, yet.

A transgression like this cannot be unaddressed, however. It may be a dog--but he is not its master. Bonegleam spines jut from hulking shoulders, fangs much the same drip an approximation of saliva, and as it circles the Huntsman, it finds cause to defend.

Food is not a necessity. Its stomach does not churn, no growl for the promise of artificial cheese. Hunger, for it, is deeper. The viscosity keeping its form whole burns with the need for dark things to feed it. Something else burns for the inquiry posed. Not a plea to save a life, no begging for anything like mercy.

This is acknowledgement.