FERAL
There is a difference between the executioner and the hunter. The former is about snuffing a life--orphaning children, stealing away loved ones, ending family lines, the outside-corrupted body wasted, the forbidden items left behind useless to the Wood. The cost of keeping the Wood safe is being left with that final gaze before death--despair, regret, desperation--and seeing a soul dim from lifeless eyes. It is kill or be killed, but each take haunts my every dream.
This need for survival is also present in the hunt, but there is a mutual understanding in it. My death would mean sustenance for an ecosystem, my body a contribution to the Word. My kill would mean sustenance for me, warmth in the hide, the use of bones and claws for tools. There is no hate in the eyes of the dying creatures of the Green Word, just acceptance, resignation into the circle of life. I can revel in my victory and enjoy my spoils in full belly and warm back, contributing to balance.
To hunt is to worship the Green Word. To kill is to merely defend it.








