The Hunt pt. 2

The drum of pulsing veins grows ever louder as she gains on her prey, and with every passing fractional second she draws nearer, and nearer, and yet nearer, and then there is a flash of pressure. The wall bursts to permit the point, then the edge, to pass through into the vitality, to release the essence and draw forth that liquid like a million infinitesimal garnets, sparkling and flowing in a crimson trickle from around cold steel. And then the blade rips free and the torrent bursts out in earnest, spraying the huntress with a red mist. She is fed for another night.