Re: Hunt
It wasn't prey running. The tiger knew that best. Prey fled, on fleet little feet into the ground or up into the trees or stilled itself within the grass and the thump-thump-thump of its dizzy-paced heart made the chase a game with a predetermined ending. It wasn't running. The tiger's growl was puzzlement and his ears stayed flat to his head and his tail whisked, lashed from side to side.
It backed away. Backing away was close to running. The tiger chose his prey with care beyond the walls but his appetite was sharp and keen and the rustle and scamper of movement across the grass came with the wild whooping noise of people.
The tiger's eyes whiskered shut, the lazy amber of his pupils were slits. Run, his head cocked. Prey ran. He knew that.