It is very bright.
The creature has forgotten how the intense full sunlight can be out of the trees, out of the miasma of darkness hanging over the depths of the forest.
Over the years Tunnel has gone far into those trees. Occasionally drifting in a kind of psychosis beneath the cool dark of the old tangle when he ranged deeper than one should. He preferred the depths of the forest but did much of his hunting just beyond the paths where the lost ones always wound up. For a long time he had tended his pets and terrorized the unwary in that vast tract of woods but then his charges had grown and gone to leech the toxicity of their upbringing out into the world. When they were gone he turned into the repelling shadows and for a while lost himself to them.
He is not the most frightening thing in that uncanny place, but monsters only rarely hunt other monsters.
One night, after indeterminable nights and days far beyond the beaten path, Tunnel chose a direction and began moving doggedly outward. As the many hours passed light began to dapple the bleeding shadows of his murky hide until finally the sun was full on his back and he was standing in the midst of the swiftly flowing river.
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Tunnel is dry again when he moves beyond the foothills, his massive hooves covered in dry mud and his barred legs hazy with dust. In the diffuse light of the forest he is easily camouflaged but hulking and intimidating. Out here with the sun blazing down on the black points that bleed against the blue of his hide he stands out like heavy eyeliner in church. He would not appreciate the metaphor for a number of reasons.
This meadow has not seen him in a long while, he only rarely hunts in the light. The gentle rolling of the hills and their sea of varied grasses are alive with movement. Small rabbits, far more brazen than those in the forest, sniff at the mouths of their burrows and then dash across the open. These are not enough to collect his full attention though he might like to catch and shake a few of them to death just to remind them of their place, their birthright fear.
While Tunnel’s grey eyes absently consider the zig-zag dash of a robust cottontail the insipid breeze guides a cloying fragrance in his direction. It’s a scent he does not know, though there are certainly many flowers of heady perfume that grow in the deep wood. Grey eyes seek her out inexorably, his body following with a controlled motion that belies the impulsiveness of the action.
“Those flowers have the most unusual scent, little unicorn.”
The words rumble into the space between them when he draws into speaking distance, too far off to collect her true scent from beneath the flowery haze. For once Tunnel did not decide on sight or scent that he would take something from a woman, but it might have been only the rich and sweet scent of flowers that kept his appetites away.
@[Bardot]
