Time for a MOTHER FUCKIN' REMATCH.

Eleven was back in Pegasus, tailing a herd of Meadow Deer. This was for no particular reason, spurred by no recent interactions. Do not look at their previous threads. Don't. Do not.

They hadn't grown in size at all, nor developed that much in any meaningful direction. Aethril wasn't here this time. There was no reason to try this again - but they had to. They had to get something right.

They crept through the tall grass and wildflowers, a black smudge on the otherwise idyllic landscape. Closer. Closer. Bright eyes constantly scanning, looking for weakness, the perfect target.

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

Aww. Cute!

Anyways, time for bloodshed and violence.

They suppressed the temptation to go for a more difficult kill. Just because these two weren't fully grown wouldn't make it easy, and there was no Hand goading it push itself beyond its limits. It was trying to do something productive, not pointlessly stupid, and it wasn't keen on a second trip to the chrysalis.

The Valkhound exploded into motion, beginning the race to get to the calves first. The air had been still, Eleven had been stiller, giving it the full benefit of surprise. Feet hammered the dirt as it closed the distance with frightening speed.

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

The first time they'd hunted, by some miracle they'd managed to scare the herd so bad they'd scattered immediately. Eleven wouldn't need a miracle now to get the job done.

The herd was quicker this time, turning immediately to sprint to their unprotected young. They'd have to dispatch them quickly, or wound them so bad they'd have no choice to let the calf die, slowly. That was still a victory.

Eleven - D'valinn - snapped teeth toward the smaller, hoping to wrench a chunk of meat and arteries from its flank.

Content Warning
This post contains potentially sensitive material:

gore

blood

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

The chunk they sheared from the calf was hearty, full of blood vessels. They swallowed it down seconds after to tore free, blood hot, gushing down and out their mouth.

Moments later and the herd had caught up, beginning to shield their dying calf from further attack. Too little too late. Still ready to take early vengeance - D'valinn was peppered by glancing blows as they made escape.

They broke free from the fray, sore but unharmed. Content that they wouldn't be chased from this distance, they watched and they waited. It was all that was left to do.

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 wind blew softly. The tall grass twisted underneath it. The calf fell, gurgling, then stumbled to its feet again. The herd stirred with every new development in this downward trend. Hoping, hoping, hoping.

D'valinn twitched, muscles still wound tight like a spring trap. Too long like this and they'd began to hurt. Was this the animal it was? The Valkhound? Waiting patiently for something so small to die, all on its own.

The calf was beginning to melt into oil. Oh Creator, this could not do.

When all that was left of the herd was the lone doe, it shot forward again, hoping to slam into its side.

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!