Nature’s Glory
A Hunter’s Love of Nature Draws him too Close
You marvel at the bounty of Nature and hunger for more. Her azure sky is aflame with crimson dusk, a fitting match for the shining vitae adorning your weapon. Her gentle breath flows across you, carrying away the lingering traces of your mortified trophy. Her bountiful peaks are unmarred by winter’s approach, carrying no sign of your desirous passage. Your eyes slide down, along Her enticing slopes, through a broad valley of untapped fertility. Therein you find a secret grotto adorned with delightful verdure. From this sacred shrine to Nature’s beauty, past a graceful archway, comes Her crystalline waters. Leaving behind your hard-won spoils, you dare to enter this holiest place, traditionally withdrawn from man and his warlike ways.
Her repose is unburdened by bow or robe, gloriously free in the center of that hidden spring. The goddess is adorned only with the glistening remains of Her evening bath and the serenity of contemplative perfection. You cannot help but be drawn to Her, to Nature unbound. You admire and worship and covet. And then you are seen.
Her glorious eyes are not filled with shame or fear, but with rage. She stands, heedless of any imposed modesty. The goddess reaches but, finding no bow, launches instead a few drops from her perfected form. With these, she sings a melody of justice.
“Tell your friends, if you can!”
And you would, if only your twisting mouth could form the words. Even as horns sprout from your distending head and your newly-cloven legs uselessly flail about, you would call to your friends, not in prideful lust, but in painful horror. You would commend your loyal hounds, now driven to blood-madness. You try to cry out, demanding submission and obedience, but you emit only a terrified bleat, cut short by a pack of ravenous jaws.