The herd was a fairly large one: a little over fifteen individuals (seventeen, to be precise) milling about in a shallow, concave area of the meadow. They were content: the day was balmy, with a brisk refreshing wind that helpfully swept toward Eleven and hid the hybrid's scent from them. They hadn't seen or smelled or heard a predator in some time, and so they were relaxed, not at all on guard.
Helpfully, a good nine of the Meadow Deer were calves--of varying ages, but not full-grown menaces. And because the herd was not on alert, they were browsing scattered: some at the herd's center, but others a little ways away, with mothers or even alone.
Two grazed together--one smaller, one a little bigger, maybe siblings from different cycles--between the main portion of the herd and Eleven themself.
It was an idyllic scene, and one that V-Chaos-Eleven surely would not sully with bloodshed and violence. Right?
@V-Chaos-Eleven
The calves were far too slow. They'd never make it back to the herd, and the herd wouldn't make it to them, in time to protect them from the initial attack.
They did react in an instant to the sound and movement, turning (one with a panicked bleat of alarm) for the main herd and breaking into clumsy, youthful gallops.
The adults spun to face the threat, and already snorts and bellows were sounding, the first of them breaking into a run toward their helpless calves.
@V-Chaos-Eleven
Content Warning
This post contains potentially sensitive material:
The taste of blood in their mouth was immediate and strong; the bleat of the calf strangled and terrified as it pulled away. The pulling back only served to inflict further injury, helping Eleven to tear flesh and tendon from its throat.
As it staggered back, blood sprayed outward--and then the herd was here, thundering in, trampling. Easy enough to avoid if Eleven were quick.
They stampeded around their calf, bellowing and braying in distress, even as the calf flailed and stumbled. Blood poured out, and soaked the grass, the earth turning to red mud under-hoof. It staggered, and swayed.
All Eleven had to do was back off and wait, as they'd imagined. It wouldn't be long before this calf died, and then it would be a matter of waiting for the rest to leave, or forcing them off, somehow.
@V-Chaos-Eleven
It took the calf too long to die. Twitching, gasping, and each time it seemed that it was dead it would suddenly kick and bleat again. Long minutes passed as it bled into the grass, and throughout, the herd milled and snorted with distress.
Even when the calf had truly fallen still, and the flies had begun to gather, the Meadow Deer stamped around it in protective formation. The herd's bonds were never clearer. The presence of the large predator no doubt disturbed them but they stood their ground, if uneasily. The area around the dead calf became compressed by hooves: the grass flattened, the dirt thick with blood and dust. One cow, perhaps the mother, kept nudging the downed calf with snout and hooves, her large eyes rolling white.
If Eleven waited long enough, it would be over an hour before they at last moved on. First one, then another, and then the rest--afraid--hastened to stick together, leaving the dead calf behind.
Notably, it was already beginning, at the edges, to stink. To liquefy black. The process would become swift in moments, but it meant one thing (aside from a shorter window in which to feast): somewhere in the dead calf there was a gemstone, if Eleven cared for such things.
@V-Chaos-Eleven
The herd whirled, Eleven's impact anything but unnoticed. The chosen cow staggered, but the rest wasted no time in retaliating.
The dwindling alertness that ran through the herd, which one might've in a generous moment called 'grief,' became frenzied aggression once again, as all of the animals began to stampede back for the Valkhound. Hooves threw up dust as they whirled to surround V-Chaos-Eleven, or better yet, to run them down entirely.
gm note: clarified that there is not a lone cow, was given go-ahead to assume the attack goes forward anyway!