Panther Park white winter hymnal

Madness! Chaos! It was the sounds of Marlowe’s worst nightmare. From between the trees it echoed, paralyzing him with dread. He had stepped away for a singular moment and subjected his most beloved to an unreal form of fear and torture. To fear for your life, to know the pain that lay waiting in the mouths of hunters — it was something he would never wish his upon the worst of his enemies. And it happened so often! The blizzard and the dropping temperatures had not been enough, apparently; the world had to throw blood thirsty predators at them as well. Such was the life of wild game.

Marlowe could no longer lament the stupidity of his abense — action must be taken. His family would no longer be victims to the bloodthirsty whims and torturous hungers of creatures so much weaker and smaller than he.  Strong, sinewy legs carried him boorishly to the epicenter of the panic. Marlowe’s expansive antlers hit against the thick forest timbers as he thundered and veered this way and that, leaping and bucking and snorting with distinction. “Away! Away from here!” he bellowed vociferously, to both their assailants and the women and children of his harem. The brute hoped the elk would take heed of his instructions [rather than panicking and becoming a swirling, pulsing sea of unmoving bodies, as they were prone to do] but he knew the predators would not. 

Then, he was upon them. It was difficult to see exactly what was happening, but amongst the chestnut-colored swarm and white snow upon the ground one thing stood out drastically: the black wolf who had slain his child. Marlowe remembered every life slain under his authority [it was one of those burdens of leadership] and the memory was like gasoline, combusting within his chest and fueling him.

Revenge blinded Marlowe - his vision had darkened around the periphery and focused entirely, solely on the demon. Rather than turning and fleeing with the rest of his herd, the lumbering maniac charged at the minuscule creature who believed itself to be so fierce. Fierce he would no longer, for Marlowe was king. Marlowe was fierce. Marlowe was strong and smart and would never let such evil befall his charges.  It was these thoughts that flashed through the brute’s mind as he lashed out at Dakarai, hooves seeking to maim and harm and draw upon the snow with his warm, crimson blood.