He has never forgot the first hunt.
Never forgot the prey he slew himself. The taste of blood on his tongue, the sharp and intense scent of the animal, the way his teeth were sinking into the flesh.
He learnt to prepare his meat in the future, over the brimming fire.
But the taste of blood still lingered in his senses, the taste of youth and freedom. It would be foolish from him to not try it even now.
His fangs tore the morsel of freshly hunted makrak. It’s good. It’s natural. It’s HIM. Why change that?