Fairspell Meadow delivered into the jaws of death

Today Greyson had decided to head south from his dwelling at Sawtooth Spire. He had risen early from sleep that morning, before the sun had starting rising in the sky. The morning breeze had brought with it a tantalizing scent. Elk herds were nearby, the numbers large enough that their combined scent was noticeable.

He had made his way down from the mountain slope quickly, and raced through the grasslands just the first dawn light appeared. Beneath the dim light Greyson had been able to make out the dark silhuette of the herd grazing. He observed them for while, looking for any point of weakness. However, he was saved the effort, when the stench of blood soon drifted to his nose. It lead him to a doe, only recently given birth. It must have been one of the first, he assumed, for it was still early in the birthing season for the elk. 

Quietly, he stalked closer through the tall grass and, with the mother still exhausted from parturition, managed to lock his jaws around the leg of the newborn calf. The mother rose on trembling legs and attempted to kick him. She missed and Greyson nipped at her before she turned to run. Too easily it seemed, her baby was abandoned. Greyson turned back to his mucous-blood covered prize, and delivered a suffocating bite to its neck before it even had the chance to cry out to its fleeing mother. 

Grasping the slippery elk calf between his forepaws, he sprawled out in the tall grass and began to lick at his meal beneath the warmth of the morning sun.