It was actually a beautiful day out, which was uncommon given the latest weather. The trees seemed to stand a little bit straighter, posing for the sun, and the birds seemed to sing just a little more louder. The sun did not miss out on the festivities either; it bore down upon the forest gently, stroking its warmth into the grass and areas not obscured by the leafy rooftop. Even under those thick clots of leaves the sun shone though, its gasping light pushing weakly through and dying itself a light green in the process. It left the entire forest seeming illuminated, and everywhere one looked there were either thick columns of white or small splashes of green light.

Which made the stag's predicament all the more embarrassing. The Taragael was always starving, though usually could find enough food to feast upon within this place. Lately, though, game had been scarce. It didn't know if it was the sudden change in wind that prompted his bad luck, or the knowledge of his presence by the other animals. Even then it was still odd though; the predator had to eat, and the delicate balance held meant that he was promised food at least once every few weeks. The rabbit, growing tired of running from the wolf, would submit to its dominant Lord and be devoured. So too was the law of nature in this place; if the Snow King was hungry and chased an animal enough, it would eventually submit.

What then had frightened the other creatures so profoundly they forgot this turn of fate? Was it the seeping mist that flayed their minds, or perhaps something in the water? There was a curse going around, the Taragael knew of this. But it knew not the specifics, nor would it ever. Initially it hadn't thought the taint had taken so firm a hold of these lands, but clearly it was wrong.

The denial of food had meant hunting harder than usual. Playing on its knowledge, for truly that was a sign of a King, it set to other means of capturing prey. Traps. Left by foreign predators, who set the iron and steel under leaves, or dug deep holes with sharp tree arms buried vertically. The Taragael had even seen a few more peculiar ones, such as thick corded hides that had been rolled to a thin line, then used to snatch the feet of unsuspecting creatures and haul them upside down, hanging vulnerable from a tree.

Another he'd watched a boar get caught by involved a dam of some sort, with those same pointed branches as before. When the board had moved too close a snapping sound had rung out, then the small dam swung out and crush the boar. The pig, too stupid to notice, had continued attempting to run until its copper blood stained deep the greenery below it. The Taragael had considered eating of the flesh, but a dark warning had churned in his belly and sent him prancing in the opposite direction instead.

The Taragael, in his attempt to mimic such traps, had of course failed. Thankfully it was not as fatal a trap as the boar was caught in; a mere toothy jaw that had closed on his leg in an attempt to devour his ankle and foot. The stag had let out loud noises and struggled wildly, though opening the trap was beyond his knowledge and waiting for help was not known. Instead the Snow King had chewed and torn at the flesh below the knee, scissoring the limb off before pulling free. The pure white pelt had stained itself pink there, even the blood finding it difficult to cling to so perfect and beautiful a frame as that. His head had swam, a dark fear thudding in his chest. Doom.

The creature had called upon its abilities, changing to the form of a foreign predator. In this body he looked not unlike the apes, though his features were far more refined and he was still leanly built. His pelt, a soft white that seemed to bewitch those who looked upon it, quickly thinned and lengthened into a cloak. The Taragael -- no, Gaeras, the hunter, pulled the fabric off quickly, wrapping it around the stump of his leg tightly to try and stop the bleeding. It had of course left him without anything else to wear for the time, but the creature also lacked knowledge of nudity. It was by mere luck he would happen across a felled traveler; one killed by a cougar. The clothing of the other was claimed to help him blend in further with his setting; white was easy to spot against the browns and greens of this place.

Then, claiming a fallen staff, the masked deer progressed through the forestry. His leg hurt, and he could feel throbbing in his toes; toes that weren't there. Gaeras' stomach whined pitifully of its hunger, but he ignored it for now. There was too much danger in this forest to let himself remain vulnerable. Hunting without a leg would throw him off enough that he may just be devoured. Better to find somewhere to rest and try to heal for now. Perhaps he'd get lucky, and happen across some foreign child who was lost and had wandered too far from its pack. They were so rarely suspicious of him in this hide.