ORIGIN

Vargas glanced from the filly to the deer, and then--when she was close enough to properly see--he again closed one hand around the deer's throat. Six fingers--three to a side--pressed in on either side of the windpipe, and down on the throat itself. He pressed, and held.

"In these creatures, blood is carried from body to head through the neck. Should you press down on that," and he gave his arm a brief, jarring jerk to indicate it, "they quickly lose consciousness."

Vargas waited. This one seemed more determined than most, or more frantic; it did not pass out as quickly as he'd have liked, or as fast as he'd expected. It even twisted its slender neck from his grip more than once, and he struggled to keep it still.

"If it stops moving!" he added, irritably. "It will grow tired soon enough."

The Overseer grunted, and brought his massive limb down, straight for the back of the cave deer's head. The horse had not answered; and it mattered little. He needed nothing of the foal's permission to feed.

This time his limb came down sharply, and the quiet crack seemed to echo in the enclosed space of leaves. Vargas grunted.

"Swift, you see. This is how to hunt." Never mind the fact that he had failed, repeatedly, in killing it actually quickly. He picked it up, and carried it away--he'd kill it in his own time, away from the little one's prying eyes. Not that he cared for its presence--he simply had other places, now, to be.