She hunted them by the taste they left in the air. The warm scent drifted in the icy wind and she followed it down over the solid rivers and up pristine slopes. They ran on claws and razored hooves, chests surging with fleeting energy. Their taste beat in her skull.
Deep in the night, moonlight resurrected the day. Glittering motes drifted down to melt against her scales as she glided up bright snow banks. Only the trees were dark, shadowed beneath the white that weighed their branches.
This vivid night would give way to a brighter dawn. They would fall, bodies heaving from the hours of borrowed time, breath reaching towards the fading moon. Exhausted and numb from the craze, those young misguided creatures would sleep.
Her advance made no more sound than a knife’s edge through silk. Like spilled ink , she passed through the blanketed forest, tasting the air and following their warmth.
These consequences, the hunter thought leaving a sinuous trail of melted snow through the black trees, were a long time coming. But the hunter was patient, and the liquid muscles beneath her glossy skin were tireless.
A slither in the brilliant dark, she pressed forward after her prey.
Another successful heist for me. This week I’ve stolen a scene that, and I quote “involves someone running away”. And who did I steal it from? None other than the Librarian who watches over The Gate in the Wood.