When those swords miss their mark, the hunter vents his agitation by snapping aggressively at the air, resenting the absence of flesh between his jaws! But even as those savaging jowls grieve, the slaughterer's ebony prongs strike true. His forefeet tighten, searching for purchase within the supple meat; blood mingles with soft ash and pale amber. Their steaming bodies mingle as lovers for one tingling moment. His prey cries out, a hot burst of undiluted terror and anguish sung sweetly for him; seemingly designed to nurture his inner demon. Toes slip, their foothold isn't sufficient enough to withstand a disobedient, bucking meat sack. He snarls, pained as the weight of his orange carcass is tossed aside; hooks loosen and tear free when the stallion jerks powerfully to the left!

Hindfeet slam to earth, his banded tail lashing, stirring up leaves and rot; supporting his balance as the hunter falls upon on all fours. The fur around his nape bristles, a low sound builds, vibrating in his pale throat. He coils, aiming to pounce again before the stallion can recover; this time all effort would try for the nearest wing joint, directed at the point where flesh and feather begin to meet. He crouches, but can't escape the flash of that feathery hoof as it screams in from the right corner! A throbbing, intense pain rivets over his right shoulder as the stud makes contact; the deadly tip of one large foot scraps past fur and digs into his right shoulder and spine. He flattens further, a tight yowl of fury and surprise grinding forth.

Pain fans outward; trails of blood dribble to life. Lips wrinkle, his muzzle is damp with flecks of wet crimson still hot. His right shoulder twinges as he leans left, easing weight from it. Toes dig into the ground, attempting to bury his pain beneath earths surface. Blazing eyes narrow upon the stag hatefully. He leaps from the ground, a powerful and headstrong rush of energized aggression. Turning right, the hunter attempts to circle the stubborn beast, using speed and his smaller frame to the fullness of advantage; all the while calculating the best way to avoid the reach of those powerful hooves.

Though, he might've circled the stud for a time; turning fear into a weapon he could wield. Drain on the mind and mass of said prey. His own subconscious is taunt, harrowed in on a single objective. Lust ravages his thoughts, distorting rationality and all sense of reasoning. He is prideful and over confident...No trace of doubt would mar his perception that the outcome of this skirmish would be anything but his victory.

Quarters coil once more, bundling his stinging flesh into the ground. He pushes off, aiming for the nearest wing (as previously planned) -  foaming jowls strain apart. His claws strain from their sheath, prepped to stab into the muscles of said wing or the shoulder.