Re: Hunt
The tiger expected prey to die the way that prey did; quivering, helpless, yielding. But it did not. As she lunged toward him, the tiger sprang, coiled power in his haunches and the flattened ears of a great cat stirred to anger. He thought nothing of the life (the small and sunlit life) that the prey might have, only that she shouted sound he did not understand and she was close too-close to his eyes. The tiger sprang and the heavy weight of muscle under watered-silk of orange soot-striped fur aimed squarely for her shoulders, to barrel over and subdue prey that would not die as it should.
In another time and place it would be merciful. It would be quick. But a tiger killed because it must, for food and for the hunt, and the moon licked through blood to his bones and told him what it was he must do.