It had been carried on the wind.

A minute but terrible scent, the acrid tang of blood mingling with the scent of bark and wild-flower alike-- and she ignored it.

Lia was far more concerned by the harsh chittering of a fawn-coloured hare ensnared in wire, the translucent material stained red and brown as it cut and dried, cut then dried again… and now the creature was without the energy to thrash and lay sprawled against the clearing with its voice climbing amongst the brambles in a terrible wail. If the fox came along to crush its throat in an instant, it would be an easier end. But its crying did not bring the tawny red of a hunter, no, its voice died in its throat as a long, hard shadow blackened out its vision, engulfing the night itself with the shining of a moon-white coat. The steward of nature. The Knight of the ever-free.

The Unicorn bent her long neck down and carefully plucked the peg from the ground, turned cyan eyes upon the tangling of wire about the hares leg and bit the line short with a snort that disturbed the dead, scattered moss. They did not speak, shared but a single, lingering glance. It didn't bolt. It calmly took its own teeth to the remaining furl, tossed it aside, and wobbled off into the darkness with its round eyes glistening like star-light pinned against the inky sky. It could feel it… an anger, like the heat from a fire roused from nothingness into a tangible force, for indeed, Illia was pissed the fuck off.

Every night was filled with the undoing of mans hand against nature. Their innate desire to consume and destroy manifested in snares and pits and arrows and spears, the chasing of little things from their land to take their trees for houses, the routing of water for their wells, the stealing of meadows for their farms-- and she, born into a role that was to gracefully accept this behaviour and correct it with class, stomped her hooves angrily upon the peg and sent it splitting a thousand ways. It was one night after another after another of the same.

And the wailing of dogs on the hunt suddenly thunder-cracked through the air.

One night after another after another.

Dogs were not natural; they were the playthings of humans, oft turned out to crash around the forest and take what they could in their jaws. They were tools. They had lost their natural way many years ago, when people had forged iron to ring their throats and tethered them to stakes, when they had trained their teeth on clothing and hide alike. They were not allowed the courtesy of the hungry wolf. So, the moment the hounds broke the road-line and began to chase the feline into the wilds was the moment they had made the dreadful error of leaving their rightful place upon the flattened, sterile land of man… they had crossed the threshold into the protected wild. And they had not seen her coming.

All of a sudden pitched cries rang out behind the cat, the crashing of bodies into the tangled growth of the forest as hungry white teeth snapped at the air; the dogs tumbled, stunned, and made a great bid to get back to their feet before… stopping. They became grizzled statues, transfixed by the same shadow that had befallen the hare, for what had barrelled into them with legs flying now stood before them in a sight that felt like the moon itself had been dragged down to earth... A mythical beast. A towering white horse with a curved blade sprouting from its skull, hair flowing by wind that did not exist, blue-green eyes like fires burning into the night itself with a tail that drew itself in circles over and over and over again… and though dogs were not natural, their bestial hearts could not disobey the furious snorting that sent white clouds billowing from the nostrils of the far larger animal.

A sacred, unspoken law, and fear. Lots and lots of fear.

They looked from her, to where the cat had last been seen… and back to her. With bellies almost scraping the ground they pattered off with slobbering jaws empty, ever-eager to put distance between themselves and the tall, lithe being that had threatened them without words. Illia drew herself back to a neutral stance, gave a grunt that was akin to the sneer of a human filled with spite, and without moving a hoof turned her great head to the direction the cat had fled in-- no matter how far the feline was, no matter how hidden it seemed it could feel her gaze, prickling, intrusive, questioning.

Now, why exactly did that cat carry the Shroud's touch with it…?
 
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