The hunter, the seeker. He stalks his prey through the long grass, making not a sound. Only the quiet whispers of the breeze rings across the air.
His scythes stay ready; close to his chest, waiting for that chance.
Hunger clings to his very being as precisely as the hush clutches to his form. Every step he makes - every single movement - is fashioned in stealth and quiet.
His eyes remain steady, fixated upon the searching figure that brushes noisily through the grass ahead. The Scyther crouches, shifting on feet created for the mute secrecy he must adhere to. He watches as the human stoops, its back to the predator. The perfect time to strike.
In a whisper, the Scyther darted forward, his form invisible to the naked eye. He leapt, his blades raised. He brought them crashing down upon the back of his victim.
There was a strangled cry, and then nothing.
As the hush fell again, the Scyther stepped forward, standing over his prize.
Lifting his head, he studied the corpse with the cold reptilian gaze of a survivor.
