A story of night

The hunter silently surveys her target's garden of dense foliage. Razor was named for her penetrating dark eyes and the single white flame of fur running down her spine. The Assassin's Guild of the forest had acquired information on a con-hare and had sent Razor to eliminate him as her initiation test; she would not allow herself to fail.

From the high rock where she had chosen she saw the solitary sentry patrolling the garden stoically, showing no sign of weariness. Avoiding the guard was not possible to both enter and exit the garden. The titanic bear would have to be removed, permanently.

Taking out the greater beat would not be easy without obtaining an advantage. She watched, made some quick estimations and pounced, howling a battle cry as her feral claws drew blood. The bear roared with fury from the pain and swiped at his attacker, missing by a hair's breadth.

Adrenaline pumped through her veins as Razor circled her adversary, eye unblinking. Her body was tensed yet ever ready to retaliate at the notice of a simple electrical impulse. The bear was berserk with fury. its mouth frothing with pure rage fueled by pain. The bear struck with sheer power at Razor, massive twin forearms slashing the air where Razor was only moments before.

Razor, true to her name, somersaulted into the air and, with surprising grace, sank her mighty claws into the bear's back, sinking her fatal fangs into the bear's neck, vehemently holding on until the bear had ceased its flailing; until it had fallen.

Nursing the deep gash she received during the last moments of close combat, she sensed an approaching presence, steadily venturing closer, as if testing a hot spring's temperature, inching closer, prowling ever just beyond her perception.

The rabbit. He must not escape. Razor dashed to the rabbit hole and struck out at Luckyfoot's resolve, a haunting, blood-curdling howl into the darkness of the hole; a deafening shatter of Luckyfoot's spirit. She heard the faint patter of padded feet.

Ah, the feet of luck held no power over its bearer's fate this night. Razor sealed the only portal to the outside from the home of Luckyfoot, sealed the fate of the unfortunate rabbit. Murderer impending murder; nay, execution. The remnants of Razor's cry echoed in the labyrinth of limbo, further despairing Mr. Luckyfoot with his imminent, inescapable, inevitable doom.

Judgment calls.

***

Mr. Luckyfoot had just collected his take from his store selling the feet of his murdered relatives. It did not matter how many had died: rabbits spawn fast, there was no consequence of great magnitude nor proportion from his occasional massacre. The villagers of his precinct were simpletons and largely superstitious. Luckyfoot saw that, and took advantage, making himself a fortune; nay,fortunes. All thanks to the blood and flesh of his family, so vast it was insignificant.

He had traversed the labyrinth that was his home, grown familiar over the years to find only terror and death awaiting him in his inner sanctum where he hid his cursed wealth. Darkness welcomed Luckyfoot into its embrace, ever silent and unfeeling. The Reaper's scythe descended once more in the home off the unfortunate murderer, a taste of his wrath.

***
Deep inside the humble rabbit hole, a looming shape of shadow lingered, its crimson eyes piercing the darkness like a corona. The darkness seemed to stretch itself, it bared its teeth from the heightened awareness of the hunt, darting through the intricate tunnels at godspeed, with only the power of its nose to lead the way above ground. In the cavern the bloodlustrous darkness had left, there lay the cadaver of the thing once known as Luckfoot, still as stone; dead as a new moon, void of any expression or the light of life it once possessed.