Like a jungle cat, the Brehyrion trots at a low lope through the underbrush and loose sand of the preserve, stopping neither for food, drink, or pause. He steps lithley, a predator in a man's guise...eyes darting, muscles flexing and seething, breath quick and sharp.

For an hour or more, he trots up and down, catching glimpses of a trail, until finally, he gets the sign he needs...fresh scat.
He stops, smells the air, and leans down over the pile. A female.

This is a female beast.

They do the hunting for the pride.

Who precisely is being hunted here?

Culann looks around again, holding his breath to heighten his hearing. He crouches low, fingers trailing through the loose detritus at his bare feet. He can hear it now...soft pads on clawed feet, quietly moving...very close...the scent...unmistakeable.

She is in season.

Before the Brehyrion can think further, she is on him...pouncing in from his left. Only Culann's lightning reflexes save him from being rent like dry cordwood. She lands a few paces to the right of Culann, suddenly circling, jaw agape, eyes never leaving the man who she perceives as meal...