This time, he did not rush. He strode after the deer, letting it gain ground, unhurried. He'd harry it, hounding it until it dropped, if need be. It floundered and leapt, over and over, wearing itself out and bleeding through the mud. Vargas was bleeding, too, but his step was measured, his stride far longer.

Still, for now--with what reserves of energy it had--it was faster. Now and again it was almost out of sight among the trees, and he followed it by scent and by the sound of its splashing as much as anything else. It wove into thicker brush, and his attention sharpened. A little bit of good-natured competitiveness rose in him: this deer, all else aside, his mistakes ignored, was giving him a good bit of sport.

He debated just letting it go, for a moment. He could, after all, find another--and the minor wound he'd given it would likely eventually heal.

If it evades me for a few minutes longer, he decided, amused, then I will. Certainly a Lesser good enough to escape an Overseer for even a few minutes was good enough to let live, and potentially reproduce, to test against the caves' other inhabitants?

All the damage done to Vargas so far had been by his own clumsy hand. The blade-slash, the mud-faceplant. Streaked with green and slathered in muck--which stank, by the way--he made his way after the distant deer.

He didn't push himself to move faster, nor did he deliberately fall back: he kept his pace, an even one, picking his way swiftly but carefully through the deep mud. And he watched--watched to see if the Lesser would exhaust itself, lose ground, or if it would remain strong and forge farther ahead. Its determination thus far had been almost admirable.

He heard a crashing ahead, and for a moment he thought the deer had fallen--perhaps exhausted. He heard it thrash in the underbrush and he felt disappointment: it was weaker than he'd come to hope. Yet, when he forged onward, he found the clearing empty.

In fact, everything was empty. There was deeper water ahead, and no sign of where it had gone. Had something else snagged it..? Vargas lifted his head, scenting, but could detect nothing but mud, blood, himself, and deer.

"Hrmph," he grumbled aloud, as if he'd come to some sort of a decision--but secretly, he was pleased.

Overseer Vargas paced to the swamp water. It was disgusting, but it was better than mud, in his mind--so he washed his shallow wound for a moment before turning his attention back to Cetus as a whole.

He'd have to start from scratch--which might be rough, given his out-of-practice body.

Hrmph.

He focused on his magicka for a moment, willing it to work this time, to find what prey might lay nearby. This time, standing still and quiet, he began to feel the magicka feeding back into him. The sensation of a hundred different heartbeats was strong, and for a moment he had to settle himself with a couple deep breaths before inspecting them. They could, at times--in such numbers--seem overwhelming.

There--that one, fast and rapid, that was the deer he had chased. It wasn't too far off, and from what he could tell it must have entirely vaulted a small section of swamp-pond just to switch abrupt direction. No wonder it had lost him. He could pursue that one--but he'd already decided not to.

He turned his attention instead to another--farther off, yes, but that'd just give him time to prepare and to regain his breath.

Quietly, he began to stalk through the swamp, led along by the distant promise of red.

It took him several long, careful minutes of maneuvering through the swamp, but eventually he'd positioned himself for the best possible strike. The deer was larger than the last, with big, but blunt, antlers, bulbous almost like fungal growths. Vargas wasn't sure, either, what it was doing.

It seemed to be drinking, or grazing--nosing around in the mud below--but it frequently raised its head to look about. It didn't seem afraid, or nervous--if anything it looked strong and confident, but alertly aware.

Vargas wondered if it would be easier, or more difficult, prey than his last attempt. Quietly he coiled himself, having crept up as best he could in the long grass. His intention was to wait until it looked away, then leap, but he'd underestimated how strongly his glowing eyes and so forth illuminated Cetus' thick mist. The deer turned abruptly, sharply alert, and in the split-second before it leapt away Vargas threw himself toward it.

The speed with which this one hurtled away was astonishing, and with a swear Vargas landed in the mud before giving chase.

So this deer, as it turned out, was much faster and more healthy than the last. Vargas muttered to himself, immediately regretting having switched target, forcing himself onward past his out-of-shape huffing.

...Caves this was embarrassing.

But however swift it was, he was faster--longer-legged. This gave him the advantage in the mud, where one only sank so deep and was delayed perhaps an instant per stride. The deer had to take so many more steps that it was left floundering more often, and Vargas quickly caught up. This one had run in a straight line, too, where the other had relied upon agility--though he supposed that this one, too, might start to zig and zag the moment he'd caught up with it.

And caught up he had.

The Lesser's body language went from startled but confident to increasingly, desperately terrified, its ears flattening, neck lowering, its gait more jerky and quick. Panicked thrusts of its hind legs did nothing to regain ground, and in a moment Vargas would be on top of it.

The moment he was close enough, Vargas hurled himself for his prey. Clawed forelimbs lashed out to either side, coming in like pincers in an attempt to stop the deer from dodging this way or that. It didn't even try; he slammed down, again somewhat clumsily, into the mud with the thrashing Lesser Gembound beneath him.

He grunted and quickly pulled upright, though he shifted his claws to press weight down so that his prey couldn't escape him, this time.

What would the smaller deer have done differently..? It would have dodged, he thought to himself, before I ever leapt. This one panicked, ran in a straight line--the last was panicked, too, but it knew better.

This one, then, was less worthy; and Vargas now felt confident in his decision to release the last one.

Vargas positioned himself so that one massive limb was pressing down on the buck's torso. The other clawed hand reached for its throat, up beneath the jaw, pressing thumbs and fingers into warm flesh just as he had before. Again he didn't aim to break skin but to throttle, to cut off the arterial blood flow to the head.

The deer struggled wildly, but Vargas hung on, determined. It was telling that, this time, his focus shifted: he paid attention to the swamp around him, its sounds, its scents. This particular prey was not so challenging that it took his full mind to conquer.

It took longer, with this one, but soon enough it had stopped struggling. Tongue lolled again, eyes rolled to white, the bioluminescence flashing a dull violet frantically over its slick hide. Vargas leaned in longer, until the eyes at first grew unfocused and then fluttered shut.

When the deer had utterly stopped fighting, Vargas waited a time longer--and then he dipped his jaws down, intending to tear its head clean off. Jaws pressed in around the skull, the unconscious creature beneath him unawware as he yanked his head back, a quiet shredding, ripping sound and the strong stench of blood accompanying it. There was a quiet rattle as the Lesser took a final breath, this time through a torn trachea.

He waited, a moment--catching his breath, but also out of the habit of letting his prey fully die--and then, at last, he began to feed.

As teeth tore through bone and gristle, and chunks of meat slid down his throat, he began to think.

This had been far too challenging for a predator, an Overseer, such as himself. The prey may have grown stronger in his sleep--in fact, he was convinced of it--but that didn't change the fact that he had clearly grown weaker. Or, rather, out of training.

Or both.

He had to practice: to find someone to spar with, or to otherwise engage in combat. Because this, he noted (while savoring the taste of blood), would not do.

Somewhere in the far distance, a wounded Lesser cave deer was lying down to rest, and heal. Vargas eventually sat back, eyeing his wound and doing the same.

He had much to consider, now.

exiting, because I forgot to exit my own solo thread *thumbsup*