Thog just doesn’t appreciate true art. I was spitting red ochre against my hands years before he was even a glint in the flint-napper’s eye, thought Krok, petulant as he searched for his charcoal sticks. His twenty-nine year old bones aching from advanced age and damp. Where were his tools? Thog preferred the new-fangled method of urine and pigment, so he was sure that up-start didn’t take them. Dusk had already brought darkness to the cave when he left for the stream, his ancient eyes missing the group of stealthy youths who quickly drew a willy on Krok’s noble hunter.
Image: The Sciolist
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