Evening begins to envelop a small farmstead when the princess—weary, sobbing, quietly fearful—stumbles into the protection of an outbuilding porch.
Unseen, nearby, cold and calculating eyes follow her furtive movements.
Overhead, a black form slips silently down from the sky, materializing in an inky figure that seems draped in funereal robes. It lands on a branch in a nearby tree, where it stares—totally focused and hungry—on the princess, oblivious of the other watcher. It stands in complete silence—a hunter, a warrior, wholly absorbed by the movements of its intended prey.
The princess cowers against the covered machinery in the porch, waiting. The watcher on the ground grunts, or moves, or betrays his presence in some other way, sending the hunter winging away into the gloom.
Had she just been rescued? Hardly. The watcher turns and walks away to fetch his weapon. He, too, wants the princess dead, only slightly less than the hungry black hunter.
Things sure got out of hand quickly, friends!