The wind rushes through your hair as you swoop low over the treetops. You can smell it. Far below, on the forest floor. It’s trivial to triangulate its position, you’ve been doing this for years. You dive straight down, your wings flaring out to halt your descent mere feet above the forest floor, pulling your trajectory up to run parallel with the ground beneath you. There it is, sniffing around among the underbrush. It hasn’t heard you, or smelled you, and it won’t.
As you shoot by, far faster than most mortal creatures could notice, you wrap your fingers around its throat, claws digging in. One quick squeeze is all it takes, and then you’re climbing again, your prize hanging limply in your grip. Moments later, you erupt out of the tree line again. It’s a beautiful night, and you haven’t seen a person in months. You barely even remember what the halo felt like.
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