And a walk in the woods had been meant to encourage relaxation.
His hounds were on the look out, scouting ahead and behind in the deep thickets for game; boar and hare were supposedly roaming this time of year and Actaeon was excited to start building this years trophy wall. Slobbering jaws opened in silent screams while aubergine tongues lolled out over muted teeth. Dominance: becoming a wild thing in the midst of wild things and coming out victorious.
Layers and layers of overburdened branches waved after each step of his tightly sandaled feet, their musky scented blossoms tracing over his defined limbs, stroking through misted droplets of perspiration and leaving cream petals in their wake.
The bow in his hand was made of precious oak, oiled with cloves and rubbed into hardness by two generations of use. The quiver of arrows at his back was light, barely there, but he knew that each perfectly formed shaft lay within reach; the dove feathers had been oiled as well, the sharp edge true, merely waiting to be shot.
There was water nearby, lapping. The dogs had heard it and were scrounging their way through the undergrowth while Actaeon moved stealthily forward. This would be a good place; all animals had to drink, perhaps some would stop in the shade. Plump meat. The hounds had become surprisingly silent, but as Actaeon pushed aside the last green branch the state of his faithful dogs was the last thing on his mind.
As a little stream deposited water into a small pond dappled with white lilies and faded leaves, bodies writhed on the bank nearby. A dozen or more partners, small groups—all reaching, and grasping, and panting. Actaeon's eyes widened, his breathing stilled. There were lusciously rounded hips arching to the touch of feminine fingers and tongues; muscular thighs, seemingly carved out of the trees themselves, wrapped around waists and over smooth shoulders; sculpted breasts shimmered with lovers juices, past kisses.
As the gasping built in one corner Actaeon felt his tunic stretch, and then his own mouth went slack. Lifting herself from a moaning girl slick with sweat was the most beautiful woman the hunter had even seen. A cascade of chestnut curls fell in a damp mess over firm mocha arms; a predatory gleam filled her smile as she looked down upon the languid blond beneath her perfect form. But it was the silver crescent emblazoned on her forehead that forced an incoherent grunt to echo from Actaeon's throat.
"Goddess…."
Her head jerked in his direction, immortal ears catching his whisper even while surrounded by the orgy of her attendants.
"Trespasser."
The transformation was quick, and as Actaeon became a wild thing amongst wild things the last noise he heard was the gnashing of fangs personally trained to kill from birth.
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A/N: I'm so surprised to see that this fic has had over 2000 hits, but for those of you who enjoy my parley with the immortals I hope you keep coming back for more :D