beloved

The night had fled to the inky corners of the valley, so that the emerald of the grass was deep, and almost black, but illuminated along its very edges by the faintest rays of light, piercing into the indigo belly of the night mother.  Tracing through the quieted boughs of the evergreen forest to the west of the realm, she stalks and weaves, her giggles silenced for the hunt.
 
She had been told of the wolves, of course, and the rest of those things she was meant to do; but of all the deeds she was bid to commit, of all the tasks she had yet been sent, none had filled her with such ambition as this.  Surely, the young Lord's insistence that she and the others of the sword, and the shield, fulfill the God's request needed little more than to be asked.  Killing was, after all, one of Beloved's favorite things to do.
 
Like a wraith, a phantom, she is silent in all the ways she is usually capricious and babbling, no longer a river but the dead stillness of a dried bed, like those who have come to hunt, too; her eyes, narrowed, pin upon each movement of leaf and twig, her hooves stopping with poised perfection with each promise of prey.  All night, she has searched, even when others slept or had dallied in joining the group which watched; all night, her eyes have fastened themselves upon the scurrying of creatures too small for wolves.
 
Behold, though, as she flits her lurid gaze upon the shadow, there, there!  She is sure the others see it too, though she does not look to gesture or know for certain.  A doe, wounded, blood streaming down her flank, dark, but that which is dripping over the dry, and even in the dreamy light of the dawn flies hum about the increasingly fetid gouges, a semicircle, an elongated ring; teeth, fangs, wolves, she thinks, her grin splitting wide, her white teeth revealed.  A strand of saliva slips from the corner of that weird expression, and she bundles her body together, and leaps, horn poised for the death of the wounded prey…
 
[ OOC:  Operation Deer Doom has commenced, and will be followed by Operation Feed the Wolf Pups Stuff That Is Not Vomit.  Rikyn shall be here after this weekend probably, maybe tomorrow! The deer has a festering bite wound to her flank and is greatly slowed, and is currently laying in a bed of pine needles next to a tree, in a small clearing.  Like all the herd quests, all are welcome! ]

 

die like God, on the cover of time