{$title} CONTENT WARNING: Death, blood, and gore (describing a hare).
Sanctity is finding that she likes hare hunting. The drag and pull of her paws, the glimpses of its white-flag tail through the grass… it's all woefully familiar, yes, but wonderfully repurposed. The harsh burn in her lungs is made anew (blood smeared on frosted grass, pooling in snowy pawprints), and her quarry is wild and fresh (a velvety brown throat crushed under her paws). The wind-whipped air is so cold it stings to breathe in, and she can taste dust on her tongue where her paws kick it up.
She is gaining on the hare, yes, the bruising beat of blood in her ears almost loud enough to drown out the damning cry… oathbreaker, oathbreaker. It is all practiced movements when she feels the hare start to lag, exhaustion checking its strides. It is all practiced movements when she begins to close in, following the spots of blood where she had bitten it.
It is all practiced movements when she lunges, slamming every pound of her weight down onto her quarry, (silvery-grey, fallen beneath her, and god if it had not sounded the same when) its bones begin to crunch under her weight. Sanctity drags its head back with a paw and sinks her teeth into its throat, carving a red ragged mouth. Blood runs down her white chin onto her white chest, smearing pink in the accusatory glow of sunlight. She is breathing heavy.
It is all so very familiar.
Another hunter's pawsteps intrude, crunching on the new frost. Sanctity lifts her head to meet their gaze, the broken body of the hare sprawled between her paws. " Hail, fellow, " she greets calmly, swiping blood from her chin with a heavy forepaw. " How goes thy hunting? "
She is gaining on the hare, yes, the bruising beat of blood in her ears almost loud enough to drown out the damning cry… oathbreaker, oathbreaker. It is all practiced movements when she feels the hare start to lag, exhaustion checking its strides. It is all practiced movements when she begins to close in, following the spots of blood where she had bitten it.
It is all practiced movements when she lunges, slamming every pound of her weight down onto her quarry, (silvery-grey, fallen beneath her, and god if it had not sounded the same when) its bones begin to crunch under her weight. Sanctity drags its head back with a paw and sinks her teeth into its throat, carving a red ragged mouth. Blood runs down her white chin onto her white chest, smearing pink in the accusatory glow of sunlight. She is breathing heavy.
It is all so very familiar.
Another hunter's pawsteps intrude, crunching on the new frost. Sanctity lifts her head to meet their gaze, the broken body of the hare sprawled between her paws. " Hail, fellow, " she greets calmly, swiping blood from her chin with a heavy forepaw. " How goes thy hunting? "
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