Along the frosted ground his paws softly picked their way among the fallen leaves and twigs of early autumn. He'd hidden in the high mountains of the distant range for months living off of small game and the occasional wild goat to stumble down from the craggy peaks. But autumn had arrived unexpectedly, driving much of the wild game down into the low lands and he'd been without more than a rabbit for days.
While water flowed throughout the winter and the green slopes of the highlands rarely browned, he had only just returned to these lands after ages and not fattened himself accordingly to survive the harsh winter. In truth he had come here seeking less sustenance, the feeding always detracting from the thrill that was the hunt. The guilt always terrible, but lessened by killing only lesser beings; he a beast that did not whole heartedly accept the bestial life.
Now starved, ragged and desperate, he begrudgingly left the flowing hillocks of the high country for the dense woods below, ultimately wary. Twice he'd come upon human markings and twice turned further into the wood away from them. His resolution was simple: hunt, kill (a deer if possible) and then drag it up to higher ground. The further, the better. Yet there was a scent on the wind he could not resist.
Indescribable, it was a mix of cotton and flowers. From his palette, and the saliva gathering there, came a single thought: Food. His tongue snaked between sharpened teeth as he lifted his snout to the air, drowning it in the scent as if it had substance. The last signs of humans had been at least two leagues behind him, away from the heart of the dark woods. Here in the grizzled night of a hard frost was a smell lovelier than blood heated from the chase. It caressed his nose and infuriated his hunger driven senses.
Though he neither saw nor heard his prey, he knew it to be afraid. There was an acrid, acidy tinge to the smell in the air and it pulled him along. His great dark eyes beneath the ridge of bone and hair that was his brow seemed to dilate. His breathing became shallow and his body stretched out in the stalk. Each muscle along his legs and back tensed with each step, all thoughts on stealth and finding the source of the intoxicating scent.
Suddenly the woods opened to a moonlit glade. Since first visiting these woods and finding the interior too inhospitable, man had cleared such areas as paddocks for their livestock. Food aplenty for a time when many of his kind roamed these woods. Now, in the middle of a phalanx of trees, was a small clearing perhaps half an acre wide and bare save for a single rock lying in the clearing. The last remnant to a past colony which had no doubt moved to the lowlands when the wood had revealed its secret children.
Such areas were abundant the closer you moved to the lowlands, all advantageous growth ground to dirt either by man's hands or the mouths of their animals. Was it any wonder that the wood would had retaliated in kind? Sending forth beasts such as him to devour the animals which had offended her? Some faint memory tickled his mind, pulling his attention from the hunt, but it was lost as the smell's origin came to view and he was reminded of his hunger.
In the clearing sat a huddled figure of cloth upon the mossy rock. From the darkened edge of the wood he surveyed the mass, unsure of how to react when it suddenly shifted. It was alive. Sometimes wayward humans unable to care for the sick or elderly left those with no senses in the wood to be disposed of. His previous caution returned, yet he did not leave. Instead he hunkered closer to the ground and pawed his way around the ring of darkness.
Turning around the glen, the moonlight played off the folds of cloth, sometimes making the intruder seem large and other times small and slumped. And still the smell played with his nose, enticing him. This was not the smell of either the infirm or the decrepit. It was light and soft, of life, and of youth. And suddenly, peering from below the sweeping boughs of a fern, he found himself staring into the face of a young maiden.
She had not seen him creeping around the clearing's edge. She sat calmly as if casually waiting for someone. Raven dark hair framed a pretty, fair skinned face. The mound of cloth was actually an emerald green cape bunched around her, evidently too large for her. She was dressed plainly as one of the low land folk: a simple muslin skirt and blouse with goatskin moccasins upon her feet. In the dim light his keen eyes noted how her eyes widened at every sound of the night, her breath shuddering in her chest—her chest beneath the thin muslin shirt rising painfully at each twitter of a night bird. Her bosom swelling at each intake.
It was not uncommon that young pretty girls swayed by romantic tales of virgins met by unicorns in woods like these would often seek them out. Letting themselves to be led like children into the dark forbidden places of the world, assured of their safety and purity since Unicorns only appear to virgin maidens. Innocent beings led astray by the coaxing words of young suitors more intent on their lover's body than her heart. And how those hearts were broken when they find the mythical white-mane, one-horned beast replaced by a red blooded male with a single horn of his own...and that innocence is taken.
And sometimes the truly innocent found the courage to venture out and test the myths for themselves...alone.
Such was the picture of innocence in his eyes at that moment. Her lovely features were acutely defined by the pale light and the tinge of madness shrouding his eyes. Her lush, full, red lips seemed to hold so much promise. The cold air had chapped and reddened them, filling his thoughts with ideas of tender flesh...and blood. And how he ached—his whole being racked in pain by hunger, desperation, and the overwhelming smell coming from the young girl. The washed linens could not block the lilting scent of her skin, of her sweat and sweet breath—nothing else. There was no lingering stink marring her perfection; suggesting she had not come with anyone else. She was...alone.
Confident, blinded by need, the beast within him rose, overwhelming all senses, and he tensed to pounce. A soft growl slipped his lips and he surprised himself. Suddenly aware she was no longer alone; the maiden gasped and stared fixedly at his hiding spot. Thus exposed he no longer cared to stalk in stealth and quiet, he enjoyed watching the mix of emotions splay across her face as the he emerged, an enormous wolf, from beneath the ferns and shadows.
Both stood their ground, transfixed, one watching the other intently. Seeing her open fear, feeling her eyes upon him and seeing she knew him for what he was exhilarated him. A snarl exploded past his lips as his legs stretched out in front of him and propelled him forward. Rushing the young maiden, his eyes grew larger; his tooth studded mouth widening, he cared for nothing but sating his blood lust and silencing both the hunger and the raging monster within him.
And yet something was not right. The tickling at the back of his mind returned at double strength despite his blind charge towards his hapless victim. Powerful hind legs dug into the soft ground as he surged to launch himself into the air. It was as his back feet left the ground, his forelegs extended outwards; that he knew what was wrong.
Even through the adrenaline rushing through his veins and the hungry beast urging him on had dulled his senses, he knew something was not right about his prey. She stood her ground, her eyes screaming, and yet the corner of her mouth twitched...upward. She was afraid, but not entirely of him. In the last second he twisted his body away from her, a feat for all the mass behind his leap, and out of the corner of his eye he watched her arm, a blur of pink and silver; lash outwards in a sweep before his flank burst into agony.
Crazed or not, everything unfolded before his eyes as if in slow motion. In brushing past her, she had merely dealt him a scratch from the dagger she'd concealed within her cloak instead of impaling himself head on. She'd stood not out of reaction, not to run, but to brace herself for his attack. Throwing the cloak aside, she stood now, arms bared with the stiletto held in front of her ready should he lunge again. Yet no immediate retaliation was forthcoming.
Landing, he rolled his body along the ground to break the fall, transforming before his first foot hit the ground. He crouched low, his belly a whisper above the ground, toes bent, and the newly formed fingers digging into the dirt. With the change the wound in his side narrowed to a sliver of a mark but did not totally heal. Silver...
He slowly pushed himself upright into a squatting position, his eyes never leaving his challenger. The girl stood perhaps twenty feet from him, her legs locked in the same battle stance. But the looseness of her hips told him she would have no problem closing the distance and getting in a good swing before he'd have time to recover from the change. Such a quick metamorphosis sapped even the oldest and wisest of his kind, and should this young huntress grow brave he'd be completely at her mercy for the next few minutes.
She still held the silver dagger in front of her, but now she grasped her wrist with the other hand. A small tremor running down the lengths of both arms. A young Huntress. There used to be many more of her kind; always tracking and hunting his kind as his kindred stalked weaker humans. But that had been the Time Before and there were less of her kind as his kind had dwindled and nearly vanished. The faint trembling of her limbs, the wanton fear in her eyes; all belied the truth: she was young and inexperienced, this perhaps her first hunt; but she'd had the common sense to wait for autumn to bring the Lycanthrope down.