Firefly Glen blood in eden

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There he was. 

Grotesque, horrific, revolting thing. Her muzzle wrinkled to reveal a row of sharp, yellowed teeth—soon, bathed in his particular shade of red. She could see even from afar how much blood he had lost, and it was this that caused her to bridge the gap between them while his back was turned. Hydra, muzzle bent and ears flattened, dove to go for a meaty hindquarter to rip a hefty chunk of skin from him. 

Hydra would run him ragged. Bleed him dry. See him fall.

Best yet—watch him die. 

She craved this violence, and continued to bound out of reach when she thought he might turn toward her. But she would be ceaseless until she earned every inch of his attention; waited for his eyes to set upon her so that the Eagle might at last take whichever one pleased him (she did not yet see that one was already missing)—she would

LUNGE, I SNAP will GRIP kill TUG, TEAR you RETREAT, WAIT, WATCH—

Her mantra, repeated, over and over. 

Only when she got his attention fully, when he turned to face her, would Hydra give him the room to do so and turn away herself to run and give him berth, and another chase to tire him further.