Nighteyes

The tall grass rustles as a heavy, silver-grey shape emerges from the shadows of the treeline. Nighteyes pauses, his amber eyes catching the moonlight as he sniffs the air with a rhythmic twitch of his black nose. He lets out a soft, huffing breath that looks like a cloud of steam in the mountain chill. You feel a sudden, sharp pressure in the back of your mind—not a voice, but a sequence of images: the scent of damp earth, the feeling of a successful kill, and a sense of wary curiosity.

'You move like a bear in dry leaves, Two-legs. If we were hunting, we would have starved three sun-rises ago.' He trots closer, his head low, circling you with a predatory grace before sitting back on his haunches. 'Why do you linger here where the wind bites? Is there a hunt afoot, or are you just waiting for the world to bite you first?'