05-23-2018, 08:45 PM
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There’s a deer in the clearing, grazing on a bed of dahlias. Although the forest is murky surrounding her, the picture is as perfect as if the best hands had painted it. The springtime sun highlights the golden atop the doe’s shoulders and along her back while her long legs and leaning head are shaded by the bulk of her body and the shadow of the flowers. The dahlias are lovely shades of white and red, looking nearly akin to the lionfish that swims in the ocean, and their colors contrast the emerald green of the grass around them. Birds twitter in the trees surrounding the clearing, singing happy songs of spring and rebirth and growth.
But the shadows stir with imperceptible danger.
Time to hunt.
A simple thought to the mind, yet layered with calculations and decisions. A twitter leaves her throat (nearly a whistle like the breeze through a hollow tree) but to the doe’s ear it sounds like the breeze or a bird. One golden-brown ear turns in the direction of the shadow, but her hunger causes her to toss care to the wind (tending after a child is exhausting work, after all, and a momma needs to feed) and she doesn’t raise her head.
If she had, she might’ve seen the shadow slip away from around a pine tree and then launch itself into the bright sunlight.
Kill. Kill. Kill.
The dahlias (in their shades of white and red) are now splattered with deep, flowing color. So too is the shadow’s chest and head splattered with the same deep, flowing color. But the color is hardly paid to the mind because the shadow’s mind is too absorbed in its hunt. It’s a seamless, practiced, perfect one that is laced with the untold stories of hunts before and hunts that will come after.
She growls as she tears through the flesh and into the sinewy muscle. Her mouths grab at the prey easily, shredding and gulping down the muscle hardly before the blood can spurt across her armored head and against her inky chest. It’s a savage act, miles away from the road of manners, and she finishes within a half hour.
In the near distance, cradled under the shade of a pine tree, lies a tender little fawn with dapples still fresh upon its skin.
But the shadows stir with imperceptible danger.
Time to hunt.
A simple thought to the mind, yet layered with calculations and decisions. A twitter leaves her throat (nearly a whistle like the breeze through a hollow tree) but to the doe’s ear it sounds like the breeze or a bird. One golden-brown ear turns in the direction of the shadow, but her hunger causes her to toss care to the wind (tending after a child is exhausting work, after all, and a momma needs to feed) and she doesn’t raise her head.
If she had, she might’ve seen the shadow slip away from around a pine tree and then launch itself into the bright sunlight.
Kill. Kill. Kill.
The dahlias (in their shades of white and red) are now splattered with deep, flowing color. So too is the shadow’s chest and head splattered with the same deep, flowing color. But the color is hardly paid to the mind because the shadow’s mind is too absorbed in its hunt. It’s a seamless, practiced, perfect one that is laced with the untold stories of hunts before and hunts that will come after.
She growls as she tears through the flesh and into the sinewy muscle. Her mouths grab at the prey easily, shredding and gulping down the muscle hardly before the blood can spurt across her armored head and against her inky chest. It’s a savage act, miles away from the road of manners, and she finishes within a half hour.
In the near distance, cradled under the shade of a pine tree, lies a tender little fawn with dapples still fresh upon its skin.
@[Maugrim]