Shrike, her newly Oilstained feathers gleaming in the meadow's light, was on the hunt. She was winging her way over the open fields, remembering with savage glee the last battle she had seen here.

Her growing Corruption was driving her. She wanted to eat, to feast. But she wanted to fight, too. Shrike wasn't stupid enough to think she could take on the Meadow Deer, though--not even one of the calves, not without serious training and experience. She was going for something smaller, which meant patrolling through the thick wood of the forest.

Simply navigating the trees by wing without slamming into trunks or branches would be a challenge of its own sort.

For now, she dipped lower--and saw something moving in the trees ahead. Must have already seen me, she thought. She beat her wings harder, doing her best to catch up and see what it might be.

She found herself coursing faster and lower, reaching speeds she rarely touched. Bloodlust and excitement drove her, a desire for a kill, for violence and blood. Chaos.

She could see it more clearly now: a smaller cave deer, one of three, bounding and panting. My wingbeats, she realized. It probably hadn't seen her so much as heard her coming.

She swept lower, beak and mandibles both parting in anticipation of the capture, and the kill. She wasn't sure which she was looking forward to more.

She steadied herself as she flew overhead the fleeing deer. It took her a moment to get it right: to predict the weaves and dodges and to match them, rather than allowing her prey to veer off out of sight. Keeping the trees in mind (and thus avoiding faceplanting them) was just as important, and for a few moments, she simply practiced this as she allowed the deer to wear itself out.

It was... fun, in its way. A challenge, one she'd set for herself and which--she was happy to note--was actually worthwhile.

Black coursed down her face, gleaming with oily purples and greens, but it didn't occlude her vision. Instead her bird of prey eyes were focused with crystal clarity on the deer, her focus honed to a razor's edge as she navigated the thick forest while keeping it in sight.

Yes... this was good. It would teach her. She would learn, and she would grow from this.

Done. She was satisfied, after a few moments' pursuit, that not only was she settling into it with relative ease but that the deer below (its woolly fur likely slowing it) was tiring. She caught a glimpse of white-rolling eyes, of lolling tongue, and she grinned as best a beaked beast could.

Shrike waited for the right moment, as she gauged it, then folded her wings and dove.

The world became a blur: leaves and dirt, branches and racing limbs. She slammed into those, barreling into the deer from the side before snapping out her wings again and rising straight up.

Below her, the animal bleated in distress, tumbling across the ground, leaves and dirt rolled up in its pelt as it fell hard.

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lesser gembound cruelty

She rose up and spun mid-air, doing her best to avoid the sharp branches. It took her a moment to spot the animal she'd left below: it was stumbling upward, frantic.

Shrike felt elation rush through her. Cruel, cold, like icewater on a hot day. It was welcome.

She dove again, aiming to slam down onto her prey, to pin it there.

She hit it hard, again, and felt the crack of something breaking. There she mantled, pinning it, savagely beating it back and biting, clawing, whenever it struggled to escape her. This went on for several long minutes. They would be horrible minutes for the creature, and for anyone with sympathy but that was not Shrike: instead she found a brutal enjoyment in it. She felt the creature helpless, and it made her feel powerful. She felt its fear, and she felt fearless. She felt its weakness, and she felt strong.

She savored it, while the beast thrashed and wailed. And whenever it stopped, she provoked it, biting it, drawing blood, scratching so it fought again.

Only when it had gone still, panting and bleating in a panic, but with all hope lost, did she at last lose interest in tormenting it.

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as above, also

gore

She drew it out, even so. Not one swift and merciful swipe or bite, no. She nipped, and scratched, and bit, bleeding the helpless deer from a half a dozen wounds.

A dozen.

Two dozen.

Its blood spilled, flowing over and into the dirt until it lay in iron-scented mud, until it began to tremble, until its weak flailing failed and all it could do was twitch wretchedly in agony. Then she dipped down, savoring the moment, and tore into its throat.

The taste of blood was a reward for all her efforts.

She ate, a little. A few hunks of hot meat. She savored the taste of blood on her tongue, and sat with eyes half-lidded as it mingled with the Oil staining her beak.

Then she lazed there, self-contented as a cat. An hour slid by, the warmth of the cave and the shade of the forest a delightful contradiction. And when the body began to putresce, to melt into rotten Oil, she greedily consumed this.

The buzz of madness grew. The fierce whispers and urges, the desire for more. But she was glutted, for now, and so she lay by the bones and the Oil and the jagged raw sapphire of her prey (with no desire to do anything with something so weak), lazing there until at last something else drew her away.

exit Shrike