He loved to play the game as much as me. There is nothing like playing cat and mouse. The prey, charged with anticipation, knowing that it is being hunted scurries around trying to hide from the hunter. The hunter’s eyes sharp, watching the shadows. His nose sniffs the air to find the scent.
I urge him on, quietly prodding him. He has not opened his eyes to what they offer completely. They are not just flesh and blood to fill his hunger, they contain history all their own. Their memories flood me as I take their souls into my grasp. My dear innocent Reynard calls me the Darkness but I am not dark at all. I am filled with light but all he sees of me is shadows and mirth.
When we hunt lately, his loathing of me and what I put into him is ever powerful; he wishes to deny us both of the delicacy. If he would open his eyes to what more they offer, he would not hate me so. I admit, I force him to take more than we need. The brightness of them is addictive. I want more and more. He does not see that we are setting them free of their miserable lives on the earth. The plains they travel now are free of pain and hate. They have worry no more.
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