The Blood Runs Sweetest With Fear

Inky paws traipsed lightly through the spring shoots. The world was coming out of its long sleep; birds were singing, flowers were blooming, life held carefully over winter was being born. A slow grin exposed pearly, sharp, white canines as crimson eyes, windows to his soul - if he had one - locked upon a wobbly legged newborn fawn. It was such a frail little creature, and its mother circled nervously, large ears flicking in all directions as her large, soft eyes surveyed their surroundings suspiciously.

The hybrid hunkered down, thick, flowing, fluffy black fur tangling in the fresh shoots below him. The urge to charge early, to rip into not just that new life but the one who had borne it, was strong, but he must be patient. There were better victims to sate the lust upon. This was a meal he was after. Finally, the mother, having nursed her newborn long enough, left it tucked carefully in the shade of the bushes, and slipped away, perhaps feeling that it was safe enough to leave and find a meal. Heh. The world was never safe when the wolfdog ran.

He exploded into a charge, and the fawn, having not yet learned the need to run, stayed still, stretching its neck out over the ground as though hoping the dusting of spots would fool this black monster. The bleat of agony drew out into screams. Ahriman liked to take his time once the prey was downed. The fawn wasn't even nearly dead before the hybrid slashed his canines into its still tender hide.

Fear made dinner so much tastier.