The scent of their prey had been taken, as was customary, from a piece of clothing the Lost had worn before his inalterable reversion. There was no time limit on the hunt, but those who took part were always eager to finish it quickly so they could return to their repast and the other amusements on offer at the festival. It was unheard of for the Lost One not to be caught eventually, especially when there was no night cover available on Solstice day. He may have managed to evade capture by his own tribe but, no matter how wily, when pursued by so many Feralian adversaries full of bloodlust, the odds were stacked too heavily against him.
Devlin loved this part of the festival. Hunting was part of a male’s basic imperative, after all, and everything in him sang with adrenalin in anticipatio
