One of our planeswalkers counts to ten...for some reason.
Gruff swung his stick with a mighty crash, cracking open the rotted log and sending a mob of beetles skittering out into the light, drool running down his bottom lip as he eagerly stomped on the squishy treasures before they finally escaped into the safety of the underbrush. He plopped his furry butt on the ground, scratching a malodorous portion of his anatomy happily while pushing his juicy trophies into a small pile before him with a smile.
Setting aside his trusty stick, never completely taking an eye off it mind you, he began to examine the tasty collection of hard won treats. Wringing his hands together, he intently stared at them, hunger insistently prodding him to skip the examination and dive right in, but his gobmother hadn't raised him so poorly.
"Alright, now lessee... one... umm..."
His smile slowly fell as he licked his teeth, an intense look of concentration weighing his brow down.
"One... ooooone..." He muttered, somewhat fearful as he tried to recall the number, frustration clearly starting to eat at him.
"One!..." he exclaimed, hoping enthusiasm would make up for his poor memory, but sadly, such was not the case. He scratched his chin thoughtfully and his concentration was broken by the sudden and titanic roar of his stomach.
"One... Ten!" He nodded, satisfied, and begun shoveling the gooey innards and crunchy shells into his open gob.