There's a certain thrill in being hunted.
Most call it fear, and make a point of avoiding it. She could never. She loves that rush. Any mistep might be her end, so she becomes perfection. She loves the way it strips her down to the essentials, narrows her thoughts down until all that was left was her survival and her self.
Her thoughts narrow but her perception widens. She sees each shadow move. She hears the soil stirring beneath each sly footstep, every feather shifting in the wind. The threats close in.
Her heart beats in ecstatic song: alive, alive, alive.
Her hunters chase the same perfection and sometimes, they get close. Claw marks rake across her back, a talon kisses down her thigh. A vicious jaw tears into her shoulder, nearly pulling her apart. She fights back. She hurts. She survives.
Some day, the hunters would have their way. They need to eat as urgently as she needs to escape. To fail is to die. Hunter or hunted, the dance is the same.
And then, there are the giants, who are so above it all that they didn't seem to dance at all.
They can hunt, but it's an empty chase for them, a game. They can be hunted, but few creatures dare to try and still fewer giants face any real consequence from an attack. Mostly, they trample through the woods, indifferent to the lives that scatter underfoot as they a trail of chaos and strange gifts.
She knows to keep her distance. They're dangerous. They're fire with eyes, a flood with with wit, unstoppable disasters with beating hearts. It's best not to invite them closer.
And yet, now that she's caught in a giant's fascinated stare, she cant help it.
There's a certain thrill in being hunted.