The night was bright with moonlight, the wolf moon riding high above the tranquility of the Glade and turning the snow beneath to glittering diamond dust in its glow. The air was still, barely a breath of breeze moving between the bare branches. An owl hooted to announce its territory and then took silent wing, its shadow passing over the white wonderland beneath its wings and causing the small denizens that worked even in winter to gather what nuts and seeds lay hidden beneath the snow to freeze in terror of the swift stoop and crack of tiny spines and skulls beneath the larger predators talons.
The owl was not the only predator to haunt the night. The cold air was shattered by a scream that cut off abruptly, followed by the ripping and tearing sounds as the rabbit was shredded and dismembered, hunks of fur and bloodier bits flung carelessly aside with dark glee. The white fox was not hunting for food, nor even sport. He hunted now for malice, taking a wicked sustenance in the deaths of even such small creatures as black saliva mixed with the bright red of the small prey's arterial blood.
Small and over far too soon, the once-rabbit reduced to mangled chunks to small to identify while the fox panted and licked its muzzle, the taste of blood fizzing on his tongue with sweet satisfaction that quickly turned bitter with disappointment. He wanted more, and he was tired of feasting on the little creatures of the Glade and woodlands. Cleaning his fur with quick swipes of his black tongue, fastidious even in his madness, he rolled in the snow to remove his own black fluids from his pristine fur and then shook himself off, slinking away from the site of his latest atrocity. White paws leapt and transformed to white wings as he found a nearby branch to perch upon, white raven blending with the white snow already on the branch as he waited to see what scavengers would be drawn to the scent of fresh blood wafting enticingly from the glade.
Perhaps they would die more satisfying deaths for him.
Ashetta
The owl was not the only predator to haunt the night. The cold air was shattered by a scream that cut off abruptly, followed by the ripping and tearing sounds as the rabbit was shredded and dismembered, hunks of fur and bloodier bits flung carelessly aside with dark glee. The white fox was not hunting for food, nor even sport. He hunted now for malice, taking a wicked sustenance in the deaths of even such small creatures as black saliva mixed with the bright red of the small prey's arterial blood.
Small and over far too soon, the once-rabbit reduced to mangled chunks to small to identify while the fox panted and licked its muzzle, the taste of blood fizzing on his tongue with sweet satisfaction that quickly turned bitter with disappointment. He wanted more, and he was tired of feasting on the little creatures of the Glade and woodlands. Cleaning his fur with quick swipes of his black tongue, fastidious even in his madness, he rolled in the snow to remove his own black fluids from his pristine fur and then shook himself off, slinking away from the site of his latest atrocity. White paws leapt and transformed to white wings as he found a nearby branch to perch upon, white raven blending with the white snow already on the branch as he waited to see what scavengers would be drawn to the scent of fresh blood wafting enticingly from the glade.
Perhaps they would die more satisfying deaths for him.
