The hunt is a familiar comfort, a reminder of her days alone in the deepest depths of that old forest when there was only her and the wild; at some point, they had become the same.

She follows Samandriel, a specter half his size but just as lethal as she dodges fallen limbs and proud, steadfast evergreens, focused on the prospect of flesh between her snapping teeth. At some point they slow, becoming stalkers in the dark; she hangs back and to his left, breathing deeply through her nose to pick apart the scents, isolating the only one that truly mattered - the doe, shuffling and snuffling through the grass at the base of the treeline, unaware of the danger lurking too close now to escape. Sunai watches her through those coal black eyes, her mouth salivating at the memory of deer flesh, the gamey taste of it on her tongue; it was a rare treat when she braved the hunt on her own, as she’d been too small to bring down a full-sized beast on her own. In those days, she’d relied on nature to do half the work for her, and then she’d made her move to pick off the weak or injured - easy kills.

Now, Samandriel, death incarnate is her partner and she does not waver as he springs forward, nipping at the heals of the doe to drive her into a more suitable position. At first, she is still as a stone as she admires his work, how deftly he handles the fat doe as she tries to escape his clicking teeth, to no avail. Then, as her god makes to clamp his death around the doe’s throat and clench down on the windpipe, she makes her move.

Like a bolt of lightning shot out of the sky, she springs toward the doe, her small body flying effortlessly through the air. Her mouth yawns open, searching. She lands halfway on the doe’s rear end, claws digging in for purchase as the beast attempts to shake both her and Samandriel loose, thrashing wildly so that Sunai has to strain to keep herself from being tossed against the trunk of a tree. Instinctively, she bites down on the doe’s spine, sawing her teeth and pulling with sharp twists of her head. Blood pools crimson in her mouth, staining the white of her fur and dripping down her chin but she doesn’t loosen the grip.

To let go means to be tossed, to tossed means pain. She bares down harder, curling her nails tight into flesh and muscle.

The doe thrashes wildly in a last hurrah before shuddering to the ground, its energy spent, its life fading out.

Sunai follows suit, sliding to the ground on wobbly legs, her tongue flicking out to lick the blood from her mouth. Her gaze shifts to Death now and despite her exhaustion and hunger, she makes no more to rest or eat. Instead, she waits for his instruction, eager to please the reaper.