It was the night of the full moon and she was running free. The chase through the ancient woodland had been ectastic, until at last she crushed the stag in her huge, unnatural jaws. Now she gorged herself in a clearing, tearing off the meat in hot, dripping chunks.
Nearby something rustled through the trees. She sniffed – a male, young and aroused. He strutted into the clearing, his monstrous lupine bulk on display. She snorted. He was skinny with a ragged pelt. She returned to her meal, ignoring him.
Briefly she had peace, save for the scuff of his paws as he paced. Then a lump of flesh and feathers was dropped in her way, on top of the juicy thigh she was about to bite.
A pheasant. A single, miserable pheasant, already half-chewed by his clumsy killing bite.
Even with a muzzle, his expression was smug and slimy, expectant of her devotion. Her sudden swipe caught him by surprise, claws raking deeply into his cheek. He recoiled with a puppy whine and bolted.
The stag tasted better with his blood for sauce.