Under the gaze of a pale blue moon they watch and wait, their hungry eyes always seeking. But nothing comes their way; only dust and echoes. Frustrated they howl at the night, nameless as they came to this world, without fear, just anguish. They resign to wait another day for wandering prey that may stumble into their domain.
They need not wait any longer. A scent is picked. Fangs are bared, claws are unsheathed. The hunt is on.
Rushing against the wind it feels like a thousand tongues of ice licking all over them, sending chills down their spines, but also electrifying their senses. Prepping them for the kill. They hear the whimper of a struggling something. Defenseless and alone. Perfect prey comes home. Growls begin to undulate across the column of hunter-killers that follow the smell of flesh. It will soon be theirs for the taking.
Barren plains of copper-coloured stone, far as the eye can see. It shines with a feverish glint, as a pale blue moon lights their way. They see it now. Plump flesh, weak fur. Fear crawling into its veins, pumping across its heart. It will die. A flurry of fangs and snarls fall like a scythe upon its prey, a strangled yelp sounds once. And then nothing more. Nothing but chewing, crunching, snapping and growling.
Blood. Warm and sticky, drips down their snouts. They lick their lips. The deed is done. The morsel was small, but the thrill fills their hearts. Hunting is in their blood. And tonite they may sleep a little less hungry, even if tomorrow brings nothing but death, today at least they shall rest easy. The hunters howl in delight, the night echoes their cry.