She stalks through the underbrush without a sound. Not a leaf moves in her wake. No twigs snap, no moss is disturbed. It all lets her pass without complaint, because it knows her.
She's getting close. She can smell it in the air. Not much longer before she'll see its antlers reaching up past the undergrowth and draw close enough to touch its soft fur.
She carries no weapons with her. No tools. Nothing to taint the hunt. She is not here to bring sharp edges and hard steel. She welcomes her quarry with a gentle caress, trapping it in a warm embrace. It doesn't run. It doesn't struggle. It is finished.
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