Steady and hammering hoofbeats sounded throughout the chilled Forest air and sent faint tremors through the soft earth. Chest tight and aching with the endurance of his galloping, the stag came to a halt beside a set of decaying cedar logs, bringing his daily run to a close. He breathed heavily and casually surveyed the landscape, and to his dismay sighted no one.



That very thought made him wrinkle his nose and sneer in frustration. It was near impossible for him to enjoy a day without bothering somebody else.

He scuffed the soil with a hoof irritably. The stag’s day had only begun a mere hour or so before, and within that period he had already terrorized another perhaps to the point of unconsciousness. Entertainment such as that would usually only last as long as the opponent would keep up his guard, but when it came to the weak who had no defense in the first place, it was a matter of fun and games until Masque grew tired of it. He even had half the mind to run back to the foot of the boulder where his brother undoubtedly remained mashed up against and apologize, retracting the statement about him being worth nothing and offer instead that he was worth a few moments of amusement. He even considered humorously for a moment that it might have been the best compliment he’s ever gotten.

The stag gave a dramatic sigh. It was depressing to consider, but it was true; the only enjoyment he had came from bullying others. Nothing else rendered the same satisfaction.
He could watch a group of deer chasing each other and playing like yearlings, but he didn’t understand it. Masque never played as a fawn; he was the only offspring for the duration of his fawnhood. At the height of adolescence, when young stags are most boisterous, Maus was born.
Oh, how Masque hated him. His parents began to pay less attention to him and more to that ugly brown runt, at least when they weren’t “traveling the world”. They would tell Masque to watch over his brother, and they would turn their backs and go off for months at a time.

But he was too old to play and much more interested in practicing fight moves. When he wasn’t pushing Maus around, he was bullying other defenseless fawns. If his parents wouldn’t notice him anymore, then he needed someone else to. Fight after fight, day after day.



Loud splintering cracks broke the air as the stag abruptly thrust his antlers into a young birch, grunting with a mix of frustration and the exertion of energy. The tree groaned under the force as Masque backed away and rammed it again violently, eyes narrowed in rage. So this is the life I’m going to have. He backed again to lash at the bark with his front hooves, snorting with disgust. Meaningless. Splinters flew as he charged it a third time, and roots began to tear from the ground.

But he stopped before completely uprooting it. He snapped his head around to ensure there were no puzzled onlookers.



Enough.
It was time to end this self hate session and move on to more important things, like perhaps how he intended to polish the blood stains off of the blade-like edges of his gleaming golden antlers.
With a lingering glance over the area, as if looking for an excuse to stay and pummel the Forest life, Masque turned toward the direction of the pond and took off again into the haze of light snowfall with every intention to reject acknowledgment of the occasion.