Fairspell Meadow she picked wild flowers

The night was crisp. As the clouds flowed overhead, bringing the promises of snow within the next week, they dappled the ground in darker splotches. Ithrik weaved in and out of the light and shadow with a set purpose in his march. Ink cloaked legs carried him like a frightful creature, stretching out against the pale moonlight and casting a stilt-like appearance. The fiend did not pause to admire his own daunting presence.

The boogeyman could feel the chill of the breeze against his skin. His mind wandered once more to the fresh scent of strangers and he began to recall the sweet taste of their flesh. Ithrik was fond of the tight sinews and unexpected chunks of fatty tissue. The underbelly and privates were particularly savory. He wondered if he should save those portions of his next victim as a treat. Thinking of his last, the fiend was disappointed that she hadn't lasted longer. He had anticipated she would have lasted him for at least a week. Ithrik had gobbled her up in a matter of three days. He would have liked to taste her again.

A crunch sounded near him. The hound turned his skull abruptly and locked his sights on the plush white coat of the female. She stood quietly, eyes on him. Ithrik's limber frame swayed in place. His nostrils flared as he drank in the scent that she emitted. Tangerine eyes roamed her pale figure with a gut-wrenching thirst. Though she was a short distance away from him, the spook was not at all deterred.

Without warning, the wolf with the pitch face turned his compass and began on a march toward the light coated female. His eyes danced like a fire, searching her frame for the sweetest and most plump portions. Ithrik would eat those first.