Dark Wind of Fury

She runs through the trees at a constant pace; half crouched, arms out legs bent, feet high. Her clothes are tight and nondescript, black leggings green-brown top, her hair out wild. Sometimes it is red, others black, sometimes both. Her skin is always white, bone white, alabaster white and her little white feet barely touch the earth when she runs. She wears no weapons, she hunts with her hands opened, fingernails long and strong, bent in claws. Any prey she stalks she will bring down with her tooth and claw. I have not seen her jaws but I'm sure they are white and sharp, larger than they should be.

The eyes draw me the most, black on black with no pupil or iris just Black. You would think with those black eyes you wouldn't be able to tell where she is looking at, but you can. There is no mistaking when she turns those eyes to you. In those eyes there is barely contained passion, the need to move, to hunt, to do. In her eyes I see madness licking at her identity like fire burning away tender. It seems like the only way she can keep some sanity, some focus is to keep moving.

She is action and is shaped and explained by her actions. She is the night wind that never rests, the muse to keep working, she is inertia. She is a wild thing, elemental, frenzied, dark, running only at night, constantly at night. She is the irresistible force.