The Hunt
He breathed deeply, a myriad of scents poured into his lungs with the crisp autumn air. The swamp life. Life and decay, stagnant water, all marsh grasses both sweet and rancid, flowers of various varieties and even pheromones put off by some insects. He breathed deeply and catalogued them all. Identifying the smells by some inherent instinct. Knowing, without knowing how, what was good and what was bad, what would kill him and what would not.
His ears rang with sounds. Chirps and buzzes, wind whistling through reeds, croaks, gurgles and the occasional drip of water. A loon cried and he cocked his head to the side, listening until the last notes faded on the wind. Another took up the call and he turned his attention away. He heard the rustling of rodent in the grass and the crunching of squirrels eating nuts.
Sound and scent more than made up for the lack of color in his vision. His sight was sharp, picking out texture and detail, nearly as clear as night as in the day. But that didn't matter. Sight was secondary; it just kept him from running into things. Scent and sound were primary, painting a picture no human had, or would, ever see.
He inhaled again, and a new scent came on the wind. Sweat and leather, tobacco and spices, and dirt. Meat. The thought registered as his heart started pumping faster, preparing for the hunt. His mouth watered, saliva dripping from his mouth, his tong lolling as he breathed deeply again. The scent was intoxicating…human…prey…food.
In the distance he heard someone whistling, steady flow of melody, giving him a steady direction to follow and telling him more then the wind carried scent how far off the food was. The wolf Threw back he head and howled, voicing his pleasure to the full moon and startling the loons into silence. Then he ran.
His paws pounded the earth, splashed through the water and crushed any vegetation he happened to pass over. The scent was strong in his nose and lungs he wanted the meat. Wanted to rip, to tear… to kill. The thought of the feel of flesh being torn between his teeth, of bones cracking and breaking, of someone screaming, sent his blood racing faster and his legs picked up speed as well. He howled again, sending a message to his prey. I'm coming for you. It was close, he could almost feel the heat coming off the body, but there was no fear. The chattel was too stupid to realize it was being hunted, and there was no fear.
His muscles bunched as he leaned back on his hind legs, preparing to spring. When he did he launched himself into the air, claws out and reaching, stretching to the meat that was in front of him. His jaws were wide and gapping, drool dripping from his teeth. He expected contact, expected to taste blood…and he did. His own.
Something cracked down on his head, hard. Snapping his jaws shut over his own tong, and blood flowed in his mouth, coppery and sweet. He landed and crouched, snarling at his supposed victim, still there was no fear.
"S' wha's a nice chiot li'e yo' doin' tryin' to ea' people?" The boy mocked him, laughing as he twirled the long metal stick. He snarled again, baring his teeth at the boy, trying to raise the fear that should have come so readily. When it didn't work he snarled again, before turning and dashing toward the city lights.
"Don' t'ink so" The boy said before something made the ground in front of him explode, he flew backwards.