He felt the calm brush of the yellowed grass beneath his feet. He felt the dry heat of the red sun as it shone high above in the sky. He felt the cool air against his chest and arms, gentle and soft as a whisper. The light breeze blew in his face, and he could smell the light scent of his quarry. Lungs drew in a deep breath of excitement as the smell filled his nostrils. A low growl slipped out as he tensed in anticipation. A quiet tightening filled his legs as his claws dug deep into the dirt. His heartbeat quickened, a racing pulse that made his head throb with its intensity.
He felt his vision narrowing as he felt the blood surging through his veins, his neck tensing as his eyes fixed onto his target. He felt his fingers tightening, gripping the sun-baked soil. He felt his feet tensing, his back arched, his lips peeled back against his face as he bared his fangs. His mind was focused, narrowed on his prey. Every part of his body was prepared for the strike, a heightened sensation of pent elation. The feeling surged through his veins, hot as fire, each heartbeat sending it racing through him. This was what he lived for. This single moment. The silent stalk. The hunt. And the kill.
The wind stopped. And in that instant he pounced.
The murak's dark-brown furred head straightened as it noticed something was wrong, long ears perking up, nostrils flaring as its eyes darted wildly. The calf had wandered too far from its herd, straying to examine a curious flower. Right as it had bent down to give a hesitant bite, the murak stopped, instinct sending a sudden warning. A cry of alarm, shrill and warbling, filled the air as it called to its herd for aid, still high-pitched and childish instead of the deep rumbling of the adults. The calf's hind legs bunched up as it tried to leap away with muscles unnaturally strong for its age, the response triggering in an instant.
It would not be enough.
Deadly black claws—slashing, cutting three ribbons of vibrant red down across its calves—stopped its futile escape, snapping muscle and tendon with a grotesque ease. A gasping wail escaped the murak's throat as it crumbled to the ground, the useless legs folding underneath it. Another quick swipe across its slim neck ripped open its throat and downed the beast. Blood was spurting from the tattered hole as the murak gave a ragged final gasp for air, a deep basso sounding from the rest of the herd that had bounded away while the stray calf was butchered.
He sat back on his haunches, licking the warm blood from his claws as he closed his eyes. The metallic taste filled his mouth, familiar and sharp. He shuddered: two mere blows to end a life. It seemed such a simple matter, and he loved the feeling of the power he wielded. He loved it, this strength that filled his arms. The faint scent of blood in the air, his prey shuddering before it collapsed under its own weight, the helpless look in its eyes as his black claws crushed its throat, the way their thick blood splattered against his face—he loved all of it. He lived for the hunt. He lived for the kill.
He never felt more alive than when he was taking another's life.
Flicking the last blood off his claws, he lifted the murak calf with its leg still twitching, the corpse still dreaming of escape. The scarlet puddle that had pooled around its body would dry soon, a welcome feast for the thirsty grasses below. It was only fitting. Its lifeblood would feed the earth. Its flesh would feed him.
With his quarry thrown over his shoulder, he prepared for the journey back to his den. It was not a long walk back, but the sun was low against the sky and night would come soon. The calf was enough meat for three days, but the Fells would soon set in, and he would need more. The Fells brought death to the weak, but he knew how to survive it. He had done so before, and he was strong.
Dry, red dust rose in small plumes where his feet struck the hard earth. Cracks behind him showed where his claws had dug into the packed clay-dirt. The dead calf left speckles of red, blood still dripping from the wounds. He knew that he had to hurry before nighttime, or else his prey would attract larger foes. He was not afraid of the living. Where there was blood and flesh, his claws could tear and his teeth could rip. He had the strength of the earth that he was born from, and it flowed in his veins hot as fire. He was not afraid of the living, but it was not the living that came at night. There came things that even he could not kill, things that had neither blood nor flesh. Nor spirit. This land was his domain; he had claimed it from long ago, and all knew it by his law of claw and fang, but in the night such rules lost their sway.
The shadows came alive and stole away their blind prey without a sound. They came from the skulking silence and killed with a creeping cold. They were unnatural beings. They did not kill to survive; they killed to show their power. They killed because it was in their nature. They killed because they were the strong. There was only the hunter and the hunted, and nothing hunted the shadows.
A distant yelp in the plains turned his head, and he saw another murak, a large one, crumpling to the ground, being struck by another beast. It was a massive striped-black creature, covered in shaggy fur with long fangs protruding from its lip. Scars lined its back and forearm, patches of fur missing with lines of pale pink skin. Its stance rippled power and a fierce aura proclaimed dominance to all who watched. A deep-throated growl rumbled from its throat as it celebrated its kill. This is mine, the sound conveyed. It was a message of territory, one of strength.
A cold fury built in his chest. These were his lands. His. The rage grew until he released it in a howl that shook the earth, a scorching response to the challenge. He did not wait for a reply, he dropped corpse onto the ground and charged at the newcomer with a singleminded bloodlust.
In a blur of black claws, he tackled the beast in its chest, teeth tearing into fur and skin as he dug into his hide. The creature bellowed and shook frantically, swiping with its strong arms that clubbed the breath from his lungs. Still he held, biting deep into its muscle with strong jaws, the hot blood filling his mouth. He jerked his head back in a savage motion, hearing the flesh rip apart. He spat out the chunk of arm onto the ground as he let go, rolling away onto all fours.
The beast gave a bloody roar, beating the ground with bloody fists, but the wound on its chest shone wetly in the fading sunlight. He growled in return, claws digging into the earth. In a sudden explosion of power, he launched himself forward. The beast tried to stop him, raising its arms in defense, but he bowled into his stomach and knocked it onto its back.
He felt his mind grow hazy as the bloodlust got his heart pumping, the throbbing pain slowly fading as his pulse beat louder and louder in his chest. He tore and slashed at the creature's chest with a feral savagery that had blood splattering his muzzle and dampening his hide. He hardly even noticed as the beast's howls of pain slowly faded to whimpers before disappearing altogether. He hardly even noticed as the fists that beat against his back slowly grew weaker and weaker until they finally fell limp against the ground. He only noticed how the beast's rough furred hide parted under his claws, exposing soft meat and flesh underneath that he tore into with a bestial enthusiasm.
The bloodlust drew him into a frenzy that ripped apart muscle and organ, splintered bone and limb. He bit into its stomach with sharp fangs, feeling the hot liquid that gushed forth burn his gums. He tore the lungs to ribbons, feeling the wet flesh shred underneath him. he saw its heart, tough and red and still beating with a failing determination, and he ripped it from the body in a single motion. In three gulps, he tore it into pieces and swallowed the stringy meat, feeling it slide coarsely down his throat.
He closed his eyes finally, feeling the rage clear slowly from his head, feeling the heat and fire slowly trickle out of his limbs. When he opened his eyes, he saw the mangled corpse underneath him, with shards of broken bone and bits of bloody ragged muscle everywhere. A fierce pleasure spread from the center of his chest, and he howled in a show of strength and dominance. He had killed the weak, he was stronger, he said with it. These were his lands still. He had watered them with his blood and the blood of countless others. They would stay his until he died in them, and none could take them from him.
And so he howled.
He felt the earth respond, felt the faint rumbling in reply. A thousand beasts rose in chorus and their wild baying filled the sky. Those who lived in his lands, they knew his blood price. They knew the law of these lands.
Survive. Survive and eat. Eat and grow strong. Where the strong survive, the weak must die. He was not weak. He would survive. He would live. The Outlands would be his.