He was relieved to finally have the fish pulled from him, watching as Fakir dashed it with a hoof. Just like that it had gone limp, still marred by his own claws. He was about to follow the centaur back up to shore before he turned to trail back, prompting Mesut to settle down, tail coiled underneath him so he could prop himself up for a good view. It was interesting, really paying attention to someone as they worked and cleaned at the fish's carcass. Mesut often liked wandering around the temple grounds and had seen humans at work on fish before, but never picked himself above the counter to get a good look, merely watching as they lopped off heads and ripped out bones.<br/><br/>Mesut looked like he was glowing with excitement, eagerly taking the clean halves of the fish from his companion and learning to speak, of which he'd neglected throughout the whole catch. "This is good, thank you." He offered a nod of his head to cement the words, not having many opportunities to offer thanks to many throughout his life. Only during times where he was unruly and allowed second chances or redemption did he full heartedly thank the priests back home. The hand on his hair startled him ever so slightly, consumed by the sight of fresh fish, but he took it as a kind gesture, like the slow stroke of the head he recieved by devotees.<br/><br/>While Fakir was out and about, thrashing and turning dinner preparation into a sport, Mesut slinked back to the side of the riverbed, taking hearty bites out of the fish. It was amazing, he thought! Or at least as amazing as a plain fish got, back home the meat was usually rubbed down or minced with bits of green or seeds. But the texture of the fish against his tongue was just what he needed, setting his appetite ablaze. It all disappeared rather fast, but he was always a hasty eater. When finished, he went back to watching Fakir, slumping down to lie his head in the shallow waters. Even if it ruined the trouble the horse had gone through to bathe him, it was still awfully comfortable. The soft silt of the stream's floor was different from smoothed stone, but felt good on his belly nonetheless.<br/><br/>When a limp fish was dropped in his arms, he darted up, like a dog being offered a treat. He had to clean it in hopes of not cutting his tongue, but felt well enough to try. As he worked it was obvious that he had no interest in using his claws delicately, the meat of the fish coming out more mangled than Fakir's own cuts after being scraped off of bone. It didn't look to bother him one bit, stopping before he took a bite to remember to toss the remains of the fish into the steam with a weak, underhanded swing. Swallowing makeshift strips of the marred fillets, he took a moment after to lick and run his fangs under his claws, cleaning them of any excess.<br/><br/>Fakir had long since set up camp, setting a small fire to roast the fish, all while Mesut watched quietly. He could probably fit more fish in there if he tried, but the meal was satisfying. Just like clockwork he had gone back to staring, not out of hunger, but as soon as the centaur had cleared his area he dragged himself over to wedge his body between the fire and the horse's bod. The tapered half of his tail draped over Fakir as he greedily stole all the warmth he could get, pressed in close and unconcerned with the possibility of having interrupted his meal. No part of him hindered his arms or mouth, so it was fine, right? And too late for sure, as comfortable as the position proved to be, he lazily blinked his eyes, content to nap there if not forced to move.<br/><br/>"How long...? Until we get home. How many nights, do you know?" He mused quietly, twisting his body around occasionally to face either fire or Fakir, evenly distributing the warmth.It had been two nights, this one easier than the first for sure, his wound had gone soft from the water and pained him little, but it was easier to ignore than someone going as far as to try and feel around it with their fingers. The fish were a great stretch more appetizing than whatever Fakir handed him prior, and his hair contained to it's messy braid, out of his eyes and every corner or hook it could snag on. He felt a great trust in Fakir, if not evident by the closeness, hoarding his company like he would any acolyte who fed him or the nagas as they groomed one another. Even if a skilled caretaker was Mesut's default, he still felt a lingering curiosity, knowing it would never have turned out this way had those bandits not stole from the centaur. And if that were the case, he'd probably never find out what really would've happened to him...