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**TW** Hunt of the Prankish Predator… 2/2

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**Trigger Warning** - Reason: Knife Play


The underbrush swallows him whole, a juggernaut retreating into the wild unknown. She is left, a statue of resolve, her fingers white knuckled around the hilt of the knife. Doubts hammer her conscience…why did she embrace this folly?

Her role had always been that of the quiet conspirator, not the focal point of the hunt's lethal grace. Yet the thrill of the challenge had ensnared her wisdom… With a heaviness in her soul, she sinks to her knees, her blade carving paths in the earth, whispering secrets to the dirt of her domain, the borders of her sanctuary just a breath away.

The specter of failure looms, yet it is banished by a burgeoning self promise…a debt of fortitude she owes herself to fulfill. The murmurs of bygone huntsmen still linger, urging attempts never made. She toys with the thought of consulting the wolf, but his absence solidifies her solitary charge.

Her quarry's footsteps boom through the timberland, his profanities cutting the air in a fading cry. The fervor at the heart of his flight, the sheer exhilaration of being the coveted, lends purpose to his every bound.

With renewed tenacity, she stands, indebted to grant him this courtesy. Her blade remains embedded in the loam for she refuses to wield it …this time.

He flares with overconfidence, a beacon of haste, his pride his marquee, he will not hide... yet his uncertainty will anchor him relatively close to the well worn byways. Wisdom begs her to temper underestimation of him.

With calculated caution, she ascends the arboreal tower before her. Poised aloft, she secures her avian bone whistle to a branch, carving melodies from the zephyr's embrace.

In the distance she sees him, an image of tedium, pacing in proximity to the path's promise of safety. The woodwind annoyance of the whistle draws his fleeting attention, yet by then she is nothing more than a whisper of movement, weaving closer unseen.

In her silent pursuit, she scrutinizes his fortitude…no towering menace, but a maelstrom of muscle nonetheless. His earlier fray revealed the tempest of his fury, potent but quickly spent. She mulls the option of shocking him into a sprint, but the gory ruin he had inflicted upon a deer speaks volumes…***shed and carnage are but trifles to such a one.

In a flash of insight, she recalls the haste of his departure…no guidelines uttered, no safe words declared, no restraint placed upon the nature of their game. His ignorance of her armament…or lack thereof… could be her advantage. He knows naught but the enigmatic dance she has led thus far.

With deliberation, she reverses her steps, the deer's remains calling her to claim the antlers as her own…she sits with a small smile as she weaves them into her hair.

As dusk wraps its fingers around the woods, her ears catch the drumming of his steps, still wary, still within earshot. The stream provides her with a cloak of mud, masking her pale moonlit skin…amidst it all, the whistle singes the air with its ghostly wail, camouflaging the silence of her approach.

She senses a watchful presence, though she knows it is not his…his boasts still weave through the trees, far from where she readies her ambush.

She recognizes the crucial element as momentum. To bring him to heel requires the dance of pursuit, gravity as her unseen ally. Fortuitously, he seems enamored with the thrill of escape, the cardiac rhythm of feet pounding earth. Inflaming his passion for the chase appears all too simple a task.

She bides her time, merging with the oncoming night, a specter lurking near the trail his restlessness will inevitably draw him to. His empathic streak will serve her well, sparking concern for her apparent absence in the all consuming darkness.

As anticipated, time weaves but twenty minutes before he surfaces, sadly a moth to the false flame of her well being. From the veil of night, she emerges…her figure minute, yet infernal in the moon's dim glow, antlers casting a chthonic visage upon the ground before him.

His intrigue mingles with an edge of dread… her capabilities, unpredictable and witnessed, threaten his nerves. The absence of her hands from view strikes a chord of alarm, conjuring visions of concealed steel.

His voice rises in a hollow jest, but the silent specter before him holds her peace, approaching with a predator's patience.

With sudden zeal, she springs forth, a wraith set loose. His heart a drumroll of primal panic, he flees with reckless abandon along the path, shunning the treacherous embrace of the wild depths.

She diverges from the chase, her pace now measured, a strategic serpent slithering through the underbrush to a vantage further along the path. His audible labors through the dark are a beacon, confirming he has adhered faithfully to the path's winding embrace.

There, she nests, still as the ancient stones, a huntress veiled in patience. As he advances into view once more, his weariness evident, his nerves only slightly frayed, she takes his measure…knowing well the sordid depths of his being offer scant room for the tremors of ***.

She unravels the antlers from her hair, the chaotic spiral of bone slipping away. They fall to the forest floor, discarded symbols of the huntress she's become. A tripwire was her initial plan, the subtle trap of the clever predator, but there's no time…she must improvise…the moment must happen now. She must be the trap.

With a guttural cry, a chilling fit of giggles, she springs from the shadows. Pursuing him as she rallies herself with words in a tongue unknown to man.

As the chorus of foreign intonations weaves through the weighty air, conjuring an intricate veil of turmoil to assail his senses. The spectral echo of the whistle finds fertile soil in his trepidation, sprouting into full blown panic as he beholds her form encased in the forest's grime, a creature unchecked, her stare kindled with a sacrilegious glow.

It's at this defining instant that his survival impulse engulfs him…he doesn't know this woman…he is consumed by the pure essence of flight born from ***…

She surges forward as his stamina wanes, a lioness in pursuit of weakened prey. His lungs heave for air, each breath a gasp for life itself. With the pantheon of trees as her witness, she leaps, hands clawing skyward to wrench a fistful of hair, grasping it at the scalp to control his fate.

Being immensely top heavy, he meets the earth in a brutal symphony of ungraceful chaos, the ground itself robbing him of breath. Before the last echo fades, she mounts his stunned form.

Meager strength becomes irrelevant as she drives her knee into his spine with all her might, her weight an anchor upon his back. Though it may not shatter bone, the impact sears into his mind, a relentless reminder of her presence.

His mouth, once howling with exertion, now gasps in silent terror as she ruthlessly stuffs fistfuls of loam into it. Each morsel of the forest floor burrows into every crevice, a suffocating tide of earth muscling its way in…an invasion more intimate and complete than any weapon's kiss. Frantic, he ***s on the gritty sediment, the taste of his own demise bitter on his tongue.

As he battles for breath, she begins wailing in depravity…"I don't want to have to do this," she screams, her voice quivering, each repetition crescendoing into a maelstrom of frantic desperation. "I don't want to have to do this." The words, laced with an unsettling blend of remorse and inevitability, thrum through him, seeping into his pores, each utterance a harbinger of dread.

The ambiguity of her claim…the uncertain horror of "this"...hangs heavy in the air. His mind races, crafting horrors too grim to bear as his imagination conjures unspeakable ends.

The *** is not in what she does, but what she might…the unknown "this" she hesitates to unleash, a peril beyond mere physical ***. It is the immeasurable weight of what lurks in the abyss of her intent that truly terrifies him.

"Yield," she screams, the word slicing through the chaos, a command that leaves no room for dissent. He writhes beneath her, desperation clawing at his thoughts as he grapples with the unknown threat looming in her warning.

As she grapples to keep his arm twisted in its unnaturally contorted position, a thin line wavers between hysteria and stark, cold terror within him. His fingers, *** and exposed, become her next target. With a deceptive touch, she aligns a branch against them, the point pressing into his skin as if it were the blade of her knife.

"I'll cut them off!!"... "Would you like them permanently inside you!? I'll see to it that your own fingers claw their way into every orifice you possess!!" she screams with malice unbeknownst to any other woman of her statue, the vile threat violating his mind with its vulgar promise.

For that scant heartbeat, his courage flickers…a desperate thought to deny her capability, to rebuff her cruel intentions. Yet her teeth sink like a vice into the yielding softness of his trunk, causing his final notion of resistance to evaporate. The bite, a tangible echo of agony, brands him forevermore with the memory of this moment…a moment where she holds not just his life but his dignity at her merciless whim.

From afar, her spectral whistle drifts, the melancholic tune warping the once tranquil forest air.

What he envisaged as a frolicsome scuffle for dominance is perverted into a chilling ordeal… his expectations have led him astray.

The unsettling realization dawns upon him…he is adrift in uncharted territories of terror, ensnared in a game far more sinister than his naive desires could have fathomed.

"Yield!" Her cry, a feral echo, reverberates through the trees. In this moment, the huntress is an ancient ***, a savage deity to whom he must submit.

He breaks, his voice a shattering declaration "OKAY OKAY WHAT THE FUCK LADY!? I YIELD!"

Her exuberance is palpable as she pops to her feet, clapping with a zest that belies the gravity of what transpired. Below her, he's a puzzle of emotions, arousal now evaporated into confusion.

With a carefree toss, she sends the branch…the symbol of her mock threat arching towards him, her departure marked by giggling.

“Where are you going, aren't you going to claim me?" He protests.

"Claim you?" she retorts, her laughter tinged with disbelief before softening into sympathy.

"No... You're not what I seek... I'm sorry…" She whispers as she disappears into the darkness.

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