Vigo stayed low to the ground, the grasses swaying about him hypnotically. It was high summer, though this close to water, the grass remained somewhat green and very flexible still. He was crouched, peering between scrubbly bushes at a herd of small hooved ones. They were all lean muscle, thin and delicate. There wasn't much to one to eat, but he was only moderately hungry, and not in the mood to have to guard his kill after his inital hunger was slated.
His mouth gaped and he breathed near silently, inhaling the scents of his prey on the shifting wind. The key this time would have to be either an old one or an injured one. Babes of this breed were too scrawny and too fleet-footed to be worth the attempt. He crept closer, gaze sweeping the herd, picking out possible prospects from his shielded position. Soon enough he'd be creeping up closer, after he'd chosen his specific prey.
