Overture Downs long live the king

it has been said death sits astride a pale horse; that is not so. death comes on wings, or claws, or fangs of its own volition -- its vessel corruptible and full of rot. death is neither a tall nobleman nor the proud race of pale horses -- it is shardik, hateful malign creature, bent on savagery and hard as the wicked curve of a raven's beak.

rannoch is not far enough to escape detection; the mountain of a bear shifted his piggish black eyes, his lips pulled in a deplorable grin.

eat.

the dog pauses; death does not. it lumbers forward, a churning machine of blonde fur and hateful sinew - taut and tough muscle rippling beneath the vibrations of each earth-shattering slap of a paw.

three strides and he has closed the distance, a wicked chestnut furred phantom with gobs of salivia trailing as if a sinister bloom behind him. two strides and he is upon the dog, one hefty forepaw swung back midstride.

the glitter of five long claws hung briefly in the air, rapier-sharp and keen as they sat cleanly against a bright autumn sky. then in that interminable pause, a surge and a flash of heaving, wrathful bear followed -- waiting for that resounding and

so very satisfying

crack.