Phoenix Maplewood dark archer, light up another sun

Evening was falling. Hues of silver and purple and gold drew across the sky.

Skífa stalked through a magnificent little forest, dark ears steepled and dark eyes roving. Slender shafts of paper birch vaulted skyward all around him, alongside shaggy sugar maples and sprawling winter-bare berry thickets. The ground was white with snow, and all the woods were tinged with dusk's pale shades.

The healer had been right; after a time, Skífa no longer felt nauseous. But he was fiercely hungry. He felt the teeth of starvation gnawing on him from the inside. Tch. He mounted a slight wrinkle to his lip at the sensation. It was nothing new.

He prowled to the edge of yet another clearing and crouched in the brambles and weeds, looking for signs of life. And for the first time all afternoon, after a few minutes, he spotted movement. Off to the left, a light gray rabbit stretched out from its camouflage and shook off a powder-light shawl of snow. His instincts took over. Ignoring his fatigue and every other thought in his head, he slowly crept out into the open: low and angular and ready to chase. Closer he drew, and closer still, step by half-silent step, keeping behind mats of tall yellow grass. The rabbit tensed. Maybe it felt his eyes locked onto it? Danger approaching? Skífa froze and waited - waited for it to relax and drop its guard - waited for the exact right moment to spring.