The forest is familiar beneath her hooves, she’s spent the seasons stalking its occupants since childhood.
In the beginning it was just following a doe and her fawns. Later as a juvenile baiting a wolf from her den and stealing a pup away and hiding it in Crybaby’s sleeping spot. Someone had made her return it, which was probably the real trick.
When not creeping beneath the tree tops Morgayne was dropping herself from Pangean cliffsides and mastering her gift for recovering from the resulting injuries.
As she got older but in the end not much bigger the games had become more fraught. It was only natural that she combined her passions for stalking and tempting death into an interest in the hunt. She does not hunger for blood, or eat anything but plants (sometimes poisonous ones but this is not the point) and so does not usually bother the kind of creatures most would consider to be game. Usually Morgayne walks out into the forest and looks for the signs of violence that might lead her toward another hunter. Sometimes they are mundane, a lynx, a panther. Other times they are not, twisted magical things are the most fun even if she could not manage the last one.
Morgayne is roaned to a petal-pink, her extremities dark. She does not display a single scar though she should be all-over marked by talons and teeth, wood and stone. Her footfalls are soft, though never silent, and her bicolored eyes are not made for the dark but she knows her path and these vulnerabilities are lures in her game. It doesn’t matter what finds her, she just has to be the one that lives.
She is unsure what she hears, or smells or feels but something prickles across Morgayne’s skin and she’s prowled after enough predators to recognize the sensation. Her mundane eyes sweep her surroundings and she slows, peeling her lips back from her oversized fangs to taste the air around her. “Goodnight beasty, it’s time for bed.” She says softly, but her tone would be more suited to an invitation to play.
we could be strangers
@[Nyet]
