She settles into a crouch by the side of a tree, a little further along the path. There is a screening bush that doesn't catch at her at all, despite her nudity. 

The darkness hides her.

Her prey walks onwards, following the path. Her breathing is shallow, now, her pulse quick with fear.

Liath's hand with the dagger flicks out, and digs into her sacrifice's exposed leg. 

She shrieks, stumbles, drops her heels -

Then gathers up her skirt and tries to run for it. 

Between her injured leg and her dress, she's not able to run very fast.

As Liath's prey flees, she steps out of the shadows, flares her wings, then crouches to inspect the fallen shoes. 

They're kind of cute, actually. 

She smiles to herself.

There's the sound of crunching underbrush from the direction her prey fled, followed by a muffled curse.

Liath looks at the dagger in her hands. 

There's blood on it.

Yes, yes, yes, it sings to her. This is the joy of the hunt.

She stands, and walks after her prey at a measured pace. 

She has all the time in the world. 

The forest is hers. Her prey is injured and hobbled. She is in control.

Her prey looks back over her shoulder, and sees her coming. Her eyes go wide. 

She bundles up her skirt and runs.

She can feel her prey's hammering heart, the shortness of her breath, the fear buzzing through her body. The look on her face...

It knocks the confidence out of Liath for a moment. It's hot, but...

The dagger burns in her hand. 

It wants more blood.

... And so does she.

She gathers herself, and walks on.

Her prey crashes through the underbrush, leaving a trail of blood behind her on bushes and branches. She's panting hard with exertion now, but she doesn't give up despite the blood oozing from her calf.

It's clear she's trying her best to get away.

She can sense the altar up ahead. It's not far now. 

She lengthens her stride, the dagger coming out to her right in readiness.

Her prey runs, but her skirt hangs up on a bush. She swears, and pulls hard - 

A ragged gash tears through the fabric, and she stumbles onwards, still bleeding.

Liath breaks out into a run, knife pointed out ahead of her.

Her prey turns and runs headlong, but her injured leg finally gives out and she falls heavily onto her forearms. 

And then Liath is atop her, bearing her to the ground with the knife at her throat, one knee on the small of her back.

"Be still," she snaps out. 

Her prey freezes like a startled deer. Her breath is shaky and ragged.

"What are you going to do with me?" she cries out.

"Whatever I want," replies Liath. Her blade hovers at her prey's throat. 

Her tail runs slowly down her prey's thigh, serrated edges cutting at her pale skin.

"I -" Her prey trembles and whimpers from the pain. "Whatever you want. Please don't kill me please please please -"

Heat coils in Liath's core. 

God, she's so turned on right now. 

She's never had this. Never even touched another woman this closely. Never let her tail wander down someone's thigh...

And now this woman, whoever she is, is completely at her mercy. 

"What's your name?" 

It's not a request. 

"E-Emeline." She lays her head against the ground. "I - please - please let me go, I didn't do anything to you, I thought this was the Rose Bowers, I -" She whimpers lowly. 

"Shut up." Liath sits up on Emeline's back and presses her hand to her shoulder, pushing her against the rich earth. The dagger slips down from her neck to slide slowly across her back, sharp edge against her skin not quite digging in.