A drabble on the theme of Running (gaia transfer)
Posted: Sat Oct 19, 2019 12:18 pm
A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF RUNNING!
Kin Name: Killing Smile
Drabble:
[imgleft]http://matope.pixel-blueberry.com/image ... uncert.png[/imgleft]
In the dark his pelt shimmers like a ghost, a streak of white on black, his eyes gold and terrible above teeth that gnash and bite and rend and tear and stain him red. He gives them no time to scream when he rips into them. No time to struggle. One might call it mercy -- or, perhaps, simple efficiency.
He knows their patterns because he has hunted them dozens of times, hundreds of times. They run and hope to escape, but they rarely do. Sometimes he lets them go just for the hunt -- for the thrill of the chase, to feel his hooves hitting the ground, the burn of exertion in his lungs, the fire of it in his throat. It feels good to run, to hunt, to feed.
This is what being alive is. This is what he was born to be, made to do. Always running toward something, chasing it until he runs it into the dirt, into his teeth. If he had claws he’d use those, too.
Out here, he has no need for anyone but himself. He can take care of himself. After all, he’s far from helpless or hopeless.
Something shifts in the leaves to his left, and he turns his head, eyes narrowed -- and is off once more, a streak of white -- a flash of gold. Then the night falls quiet once again.
WC :: 229
Kin Name: Killing Smile
Drabble:
[imgleft]http://matope.pixel-blueberry.com/image ... uncert.png[/imgleft]
In the dark his pelt shimmers like a ghost, a streak of white on black, his eyes gold and terrible above teeth that gnash and bite and rend and tear and stain him red. He gives them no time to scream when he rips into them. No time to struggle. One might call it mercy -- or, perhaps, simple efficiency.
He knows their patterns because he has hunted them dozens of times, hundreds of times. They run and hope to escape, but they rarely do. Sometimes he lets them go just for the hunt -- for the thrill of the chase, to feel his hooves hitting the ground, the burn of exertion in his lungs, the fire of it in his throat. It feels good to run, to hunt, to feed.
This is what being alive is. This is what he was born to be, made to do. Always running toward something, chasing it until he runs it into the dirt, into his teeth. If he had claws he’d use those, too.
Out here, he has no need for anyone but himself. He can take care of himself. After all, he’s far from helpless or hopeless.
Something shifts in the leaves to his left, and he turns his head, eyes narrowed -- and is off once more, a streak of white -- a flash of gold. Then the night falls quiet once again.
WC :: 229