Disgusted lips scowl as the raw stench of dander pads his sensitive cavities. Jaws are filled, but unsatisfied with the wild fringe that is (offered) shoved into his thirsty hole. Cruelly, he bites down – attempting to crush those pinions and press for any semblance of meat which could lay beneath that loathsome cover of musk and feather. The bite is abrupt, with no intention of lingering. Gravity tugs, advising him to let go or risk learning to fly. Wisely, he loosens, cringing visibly as the abrasion and bruise on his right shoulder burns from over extension.

The moist, leaf laden floor caves when the heavy return trip pummels it much harder than before. Sharp, furious eyes narrow upon the scene, his muscles remember recent inflection of those hateful toes; they sing their warning song, encouraging all four limbs to take the hint and rapidly tuck. The hunter flattens instantly, his chin digs upon churned decay with a not a second to spare as a wallop of failing feet dart overhead! His white splotched ears disappear in the orange and black overlay upon his crown. A furious, resentful hiss slithers out from between clenched teeth. His chest cavity extends, sucking gently as the moan of his wounds twinge…rapidly turning from annoyance to strain for the tiring warrior.

Boiling vexation encroaches the boundary until it runs over; brackish frustration seeps into his pores. The revolting stir of insatiable bloodthirst controls him, blinds him…rendering the hunter unable to comprehend retreat. His arrogance is fixed, like a lifetime of animosity which has transformed a boy into an abomination; he (like so many others) has only been taught to wield cruelty for the sake of pleasure…title and power. Predator irises sharpen…lurching to narrow on the painted blob in the far corner of his vision.

Forefeet press, twisting him in a tight circle. Another…more barbarous idea has come to mind. The cat darts (as fast as his injury would allow,) and lunges for the milky flesh of a more agreeable target. While he closes their distance, his back is turned -his spine is vulnerable- but the cat wields that trump card boldly, betting that there is ample time. He assumes the stallion would waste precious seconds recovering, dance around and puzzle together his intentions.

A delicious perfume sings in his blood – intoxicated, lusting – ivories aim just above her knee, with his left shoulder bracing to knock into said wench. Claws extend, snagging the terrain for traction. If she fell…he’d ride her to the ground and use her flesh as leverage.