North of the forest, Thrall moved like a shadow given shape. He leapt from branch to branch, the wood creaking under the impact of his landing, then falling still again as if afraid to make a sound in his wake. Thrall hunted like a beast.
He stopped at the crook of an old oak, nostrils flaring. The smell was there, wet fur, iron, rot. His lips peeled back in a grin that showed just a bit too much tooth.
"Hungry," he muttered to no one, voice low, almost a growl. Below, something shifted in the underbrush, heavy, clumsy, unaware. A monster, but not alert, well, not yet.
Thrall crouched, muscles tightening like drawn wire, every breath a quiet drumbeat in his ears.
The thing below moved with the careless rhythm of something that had never been hunted before, its weight making the roots tremble.
The stench was rank wet fur and curdled blood, but to Thrall, it smelled like dinner. Thrall licked his lips and grinned. Kill first, eat after. One more breath, then he dropped.
