//------------------------------// // Manticore // Story: Big Game, Hunter // by BleepBloop2 //------------------------------// The hunter stalked its prey and was stalked in turn. It was a magnificent beast. Tall and strong, it was the pinnacle every manticore cub dreamed of reaching. The beat of its wings brought gales of wind down, a swipe of its claws rent stone, and the touch of its poison was death. The bright red of its mane showed all that dared to look how fierce it was, and if that wasn’t enough, the countless scars marring its hide were plenty. It tread carefully, quietly, softly, the branches it brushed past making not a sound, the blades of grass beneath its massive paws undisturbed by its passing. To move so silently was a remarkable feat for one so large. Its gaze was firmly forward, focused on the herd of deer before it. It paused briefly, muscles shifting beneath its fur as it prepared to pounce, to feast. A branch snapped. The deer bolted, scattering a dozen different ways through the thick forest, filling the space between the trees with the sound of their escape. But the manticore was not to be thwarted. It ruled this patch of forest; any who trod here were its prey. The manticore turned, and made its way towards the sound, eyes scanning, ears alert. It found nothing. The sound had came from an empty clearing, and only plants remained of whatever had been here. The hunter paused, scenting the air, and caught something. It turned to face its new prey. There was a flash of green and brown. The beast roared in pain and anger as it was struck across the face. The sound echoed across the forest, followed by the sound of an intelligent thing fleeing. The manticore stumbled away from its attacker and looked down at it. It was a pony, a stallion the colour of leaves and dirt with enough scars to rival the manticore, staring up at the beast and baring his teeth. The manticore paused for a moment. She of the Gentle Rage had been clear on this. The creatures of the forest were not to hurt her kind. But this one had struck first; he could not be allowed to live. She of the Gentle Rage could be endured, if only just. This could not. The manticore roared again and leapt. The pony dodged to the side, ducked a massive swipe, and struck back. A strong forehoof struck the beast across the chin, drawing blood. The pony leapt back to dodge the manticore’s sharp teeth and rolled to avoid its sting. As the roll ended, the manticore caught a hind leg with the back of its paw, sending the pony tumbling into a tree. The pony lay for a moment, dazed. The manticore charged. The pony staggered to his hooves and ducked between the beast’s legs, running under and behind them. The manticore crashed into the tree, which cracked with a sound like thunder, scaring off anything brave or foolish enough to stay after hearing the manticore’s anger. The pony found the manticore’s tail and broke off the sting, leaving a growing pool of venom and blood. The manticore roared again. The stallion tried to move, but he wasn’t fast enough to dodge the tail. The blow lifted the pony from the ground and sent him to the other side of the clearing. The manticore turned and advanced more warily. The pony forced himself to stand, despite the blood he coughed and the pain he felt in his chest. He watched as the manticore stalked towards him, towering over him even as it crouched low to the ground. A smile grew on his face. He pawed at the ground and felt the spikes along the base of his shoes tear into the soft soil. He watched the manticore and the manticore watched him back, each waiting for the other to make the first move. In the distance, another manticore roared. The one in the clearing twitched an ear towards the sound. The stallion charged. Spikes tore into the ground as he sped forward, powerful leg muscles rapidly building speed. He dodged the injured tail and lashed with one foreleg in a quick jab. It struck the beast in the knee, spikes driving into muscle. The pony gave a quick twist as the manticore roared and tried to reach him, tearing the muscle even more when he pulled free. The manticore tried to move back, to get the pony in front of it, but the pony followed. He juked to the side, slamming a shoulder into the side of the beast’s injured leg. The manticore wobbled, but did not fall, its paw sliding across the now bare dirt. The pony jumped clear of the manticore as it dropped to its stomach, attempting to crush its prey beneath it. The stallion took the chance and lashed out with both hind legs into the side of the beast. Bones cracked and muscle tore under the blow as the manticore let loose a cry like a rockslide. The manticore lashed out with a wing, a fearsome blow that struck the stallion in the side and sent him tumbling away again. The manticore lifted its bulk off the ground and swiped at the prone stallion, batting him into a tree which cracked and bent under the force of the blow. The pony did not move. The manticore advanced carefully, quietly, softly. Still the pony did not move. The beast was upon him. Still the pony did not move. The manticore darted forward, jaws open wide enough to swallow the stallion whole. The pony moved. Quick as lightning, he pushed himself under the jaws of the beast, passing close enough to feel the beast’s hot, rancid breath on his back, and thrust a forehoof up and into the thing’s throat. Blood gushed forth in a red torrent as the beast staggered back, reacting as any predator would to a quick and unexpected attack. The pony kept his distance. He knew it was a fatal blow, but the beast might not have. Slowly, the beast’s movements grew sluggish as its life spilled over the floor of the clearing, painting the ground red. The stallion waited until it grew still, then he waited longer. When he was satisfied it was well and truly dead, he allowed himself to relax, letting out a short sigh and hobbling over to the edge of the clearing. From a spot between a fallen tree and a pair of large stones, he drew out a set of sturdy dark brown canvas saddlebags. The bags were old and worn, but well cared for, with numerous stitches from repairs. In one corner, in small, tight stitches done with more care and precision than those done for repairs, were the letters B.G.  From one pocket of the bags, he drew a small blade half the length of his forelimb, which he set aside. A few minutes later, the bags were well and truly fixed to his back. Only then did he pick up the small blade, holding the wooden handle between his teeth. He made his way over to fallen manticore and pulled apart its lips, showing its massive teeth. A few minutes of work with the blade, and one of the manticore’s fangs came free, tumbling to the dirt. The stallion carefully returned the blade to the bag before inspecting the fang. It was larger than his blade by a small margin; it was also yellowed, wet, and dripping with blood. He cleaned it on the ground, and placed it in the bag alongside his blade. The stallion turned, then looked to the sky. Night would fall soon. With his newest trophy secured, he set off through the forest and towards home.