I am not like any ordinary world
As he watches the Imperial Hound Leonidas does not know that this is not the only hungry creature out this night. He tracks it through the woods, stepping silent and carefully as a deer. The leaves barely rustle, but if they do, they are not heard beneath the heavier footfalls of the predator. A predator, the wild-wood boy knows, does not need to step lightly, when there is nothing for it to fear. It wanders, lead by a scent. It lifts its head and lets its nose be turned toward the scent it follows. It slinks off in that direction, its face impassive, its ears twitching. Though it seems quiet, calm, Leonidas knows how the creature years for meat, his this is a scavenger hunt and nothing else. It is spring, the dog has to be strong, ready for the heat of summer and the onset of chilling winter.
Deeper and deeper into the dark of the wood the hound slips, shadowed by a pegasus boy. Soon, soon the scent of blood turns the air metallic and sweet and wrong. It is not a small trace, but a thick pooling of scent, like a deluge of blood has washed out from a body. The boy’s ears twitch as indecision and discomfort lance through him. He knows what was to come when he chose to follow this beast with its growing hunger.
Rounding the corner, pushing through a gathering of trees, a dark swine corpse lies, spilled open. Above it, victorious, godly, a stallion stands. His white horn is stained with blood, its point wicked sharp. Moonlight gleams like diamond atop its tip. The boy’s stomach twists for the loss of life. He wonders if this stallion is a kelpie, if sharpened teeth lie behind his crimson lips. He would think more, but for the low growl that rips through the darkness. The boy turns his antlered head to the hound as it levels its gaze upon the stallion and dares to claim the corpse as its own.
Leonidas’ ears fall toward his skull, his chin dips, warily in toward his chest. He knows, already. That more blood is to be spilled this night. The claiming growl that rattles like bones from the hounds’ throat is a mockery to the stallion’s words. Nature has come to claim what is hers and the boy turns his head from beast to stallion and wonders which is the more dangerous creature here.
“I do not eat meat.” The boy says, without anger, without disgust. He knows how the cycle of Novus’ wilds is one of death and life and how the two engage in their deadly dance, over and over and over. “But I think the hound does,” Leonidas muses lightly and turns his golden, dragonic eyes upon the dog. His head lowers his breath escaping in a low, low huff.
@Arawn
