the hunter

Moss and Rain

skekMal inhaled the deep scent of the thick forest; the moss mixed with damp earth and the rain that just washed Thra. His tail thumped against the ground, with content, as last droplets fell on his unmasked face.

This wasn’t as good as the hunt. But good of its own. To feel that he is part of this place, which belonged to him, yet he never fully was rooted in. In these moments, when everything was soaked in water, and the branches of the trees covered the bleak suns, he felt more bound to this forest. He was like those trees, eternal, with his feet dug into the soil, which was giving him prey, each day and each night.

His fists clenched, talons buried in his own skin, but not drawing blood.

This was a promising start of a good day. Good for the hunt. Good for the kill. Good to live it through.