[size=9pt]"Aren't old people supposed to care about table manners?" As ironic as it was for a predator such as a lion to be so squeamish, Moon's stumbled across the scene, and stands, now, with one side of his lip drawn up in distaste as he watches the wolf maul at his prey. Though he doesn't seem the type, with his disheveled state and muddy paws, Moon cares about... Cleanliness. Or, at least, faces not covered entirely with blood, which is what he sees now. Perhaps it stems from the many time he's witnessed his mother return home with her face stained crimson, but childhood traumas that materialize themselves as casual preferences in adulthood was something he preferred not to think too hard on-- so he wouldn't know.

The lanky creature can't look away, though, so he watches blood seep through Bubonicplague's fur until he catches on that it isn't the buck's-- It's his. At which point the lion can't stifle a laugh. "Thought the aim of the game was to take down the prey without making a corpse of yourself, too." He quips, and though he inches forward, he stops just as soon, because although he's an ex-Halo with the immediate instinct to heal, Bubonicplague is someone Moon's not too sure about getting too close to, just yet. He'd wait for Imperia.