He'd had little appetite for longer than he could easily remember, his thoughts dark and filled with violence as he prowled along the edges of the Settlement and across the fields. The animals of the Hollowed Grounds were lean things, unappetizing, uninspiring. The people, now... that was a different kind of hunt, one that he would need his full strength to undertake.
And to reach his full strength he needed meat. Flesh. Raw and pulsing with life'sblood and vitality, red and hot and sweet. Just the thought of it had him salivating black bile, though every swallow of it only made him more hungry, more feral, more desperate. He crossed the outskirts on fox feet, small and nimble, but the death of a mere mouse or vole would not satisfy him today. He wanted something he could sink his fingers into, a feast, not a morsel. He wanted something big enough to tear apart and savor as it screamed.
He regained a man's shape as he passed into the Greatwood, though he retained a fox's ears and claws as evening fell across the land, blood-red sun painting the snow in beautiful shades of gore. It was a good omen, and lips lifted away from sharpened teeth in a snarling smile as he prowled through the Wildwood, the forest's magic useless against a beast's simple mind.
A small gryphon flew overhead, sharp eyes scanning the world below for signs of prey as her companion's hunger drove and twisted within her, cheerful heart turned wild and unpredictable as she sought the food they needed.
There. A flock of turkeys were bumbling their way to a night's roost in a copse of hemlock trees, clucking quietly to each other as they did. They were large and fat in spite of the Greatwood's sickness, but wary as they settled beneath the branches, clucking softly to each other as they blended brown feathers into brown bark and shadowed boughs.
Melita
And to reach his full strength he needed meat. Flesh. Raw and pulsing with life'sblood and vitality, red and hot and sweet. Just the thought of it had him salivating black bile, though every swallow of it only made him more hungry, more feral, more desperate. He crossed the outskirts on fox feet, small and nimble, but the death of a mere mouse or vole would not satisfy him today. He wanted something he could sink his fingers into, a feast, not a morsel. He wanted something big enough to tear apart and savor as it screamed.
He regained a man's shape as he passed into the Greatwood, though he retained a fox's ears and claws as evening fell across the land, blood-red sun painting the snow in beautiful shades of gore. It was a good omen, and lips lifted away from sharpened teeth in a snarling smile as he prowled through the Wildwood, the forest's magic useless against a beast's simple mind.
A small gryphon flew overhead, sharp eyes scanning the world below for signs of prey as her companion's hunger drove and twisted within her, cheerful heart turned wild and unpredictable as she sought the food they needed.
There. A flock of turkeys were bumbling their way to a night's roost in a copse of hemlock trees, clucking quietly to each other as they did. They were large and fat in spite of the Greatwood's sickness, but wary as they settled beneath the branches, clucking softly to each other as they blended brown feathers into brown bark and shadowed boughs.
Melita
