There was a rush of air, a flap of feathered wings, the soft brushed landing on the trampled ground inside the pen. The goats and sheep and cattle skittered and bumped in quiet terror; they parted like the sea before the winged lion as he loped forward one paw at a time, his head low and grinning.

There was a different kind of fear huddled here, oh yes. An intelligent fear, a fear saturated not in hatred but in [i]want[/i]. It was a curious smell, a sound like rapid heartbeat and an open mouth. His hunger could wait: [i]this[/i] was new, [i]this[/i] was interesting. That heartbeat hitched and that breathing caught, as if that human who thought he was unseen had begun to cry out but second guessed himself.

Ralarulash thought he might help him out just a little with that pesky indecision.

He arched his spine, bared his teeth, and released a mighty, shattering roar.

The cattle broke into a stampede; the goats skittered and fell on each other's horns; the sheep bounced and bleated; the flimsy pen walls crashed to the ground, trampled beneath a thunder of hooves. Dust and stones roiled like smoke, and through it the winged lion paced, snarling, waiting. The goats and the sheep and the cattle hurtled past him out of the billows of sand, but he only had eyes for the human. The human with the fear of failure.