I inhale the salty sweetness of sea air. My nostrils tickle with it. A beautiful scene, I ponder, digging my fingers into damp sand and rubbing the grains up and down my skin. I cover my wet, nude limbs and torso in gritty goodness before walking away from the shoreline and entering the jungle. I'm assuming my Prey are not privy to the benefits of sandy skin during a Prowl. Not only does it reduce overall body heat emissions; it encases human smell. As I pass under steamy canopies and through thick foliage, my only concern is sound; my placement of foot. Prey are told that when the jungle falls silent, a Prowler is near. It's one of their very few advantages. But being covered in salty sand and having mastered the art of inaudible creeping, the jungle's chorus sings without disturbance.
I inhale again, nostrils flared. My left ear pricks; something moves in the tree behind me. I resist glancing; eyes are always the give-away. It is nature to look when you have located your Prey, and once your eyes meet theirs, they strike out of fear or make a run for it. Prey are ruled by fear, and fear results in illogical denial. If every slight motion and action I make, goosebumps and raised hair, a tightening of muscles, a sudden freeze while I confirm my suspicions, indicates that I have located the exact positioning of the Prey, their irrationality will tell them that if I don't turn my head and meet their gaze, they're still safe from me. It is the ruling of the atavist that lives inside them that makes them my Prey. I decide I'll stay near this one. They are up in a tree - by the sounds of it, quite high up - which means they must come down soon, whether it be to soil, to sleep, to run. It is an inevitability I am patient enough to wait for. I clear a dry space and begin constructing my fire. My Prey will surely be confused by this; the jungle is humming with humidity. A fire is even less necessary than it is easy to light. But it is not for heat that I set the blaze, and once this dawns on my victim, he is sure to panic, and panic creates unpredictability. This, I welcome. Much better sport.
Nightfall. I feign sleep while my Prey shakily descends his tree behind me. I can hear with each cautious step that his limbs are strained, his bones weary. His adrenaline has been pumping through his veins since he was dropped here this morning, I assume. It crosses my mind that he could begin to make a run for it, but I find this unlikely. He is too desperate. In all my Prowls, this is a sure sign of a Striker, not a Sprinter. He is exhausted, and believes me to be vulnerable.
I smile as I hear him tiptoe across the viny growths, most certainly searching for a heavy rock to crush my brains with. I watch the embers of my evening fire dissipate. The chirping of the jungle crescendos as the distinct sound of a rock dislodging from the ground rings out.
In a flash, I'm on my feet. Prey screams. The rock drops to its feet.
Oh.
A female!
I'd never had the pleasure of chasing a female Prey; generally, they were kept as concubines or pleasure-maids. This one must've been naughty.
I bare my teeth at her, my grin wide. She cowers back, stumbling as she does, and topples onto the ground. A meek sob saps out of her wobbling lips.
I stand over her. I imagine what a sight I must be in the darkness of the trees, illuminated only slightly by the orange glow of my dying fire. An apex Prowler; rippled with thick muscle, stretching taller than a standing bear, teeth a row of frothing razors.
Her hands come away from her face as she beholds me, and our eyes lock. They're green, bright green, almost reflective in the dark. I study them for a moment. They open wide and long like chunks of jade on a stone wall. Her lips, thin and pink, tremble as her tongue runs over them. My head tilts.
I feel a sudden hesitancy. To kill this one feels too easy. Or perhaps - perhaps too hard. To kill this one would be pouring concrete into a jade mine. I crouch over her, poking her stomach. She is not all skin and bone. A pouch sits over her womb. I poke at her and she squeaks. I do it again, enjoying the sound.
A dizzying sensation rattles me, after something hard blows into the side of my head. I fall onto my back, blinking, trying to comprehend what was happening, where it came from. Over me, two Preys, thin and stunted, armed with rocks and sharpened sticks. They're covered in sand. They help up the green-eyed female. She looms over my twitching body, inhales, and spits.