Faster and faster they tried to run, and faster and faster she would follow–like a venomous python, she was waiting, pacing herself for the perfect time to strike.
There was a hunting practice among wolves, that she had adopted into her games. A game of patience and a game of waiting, where both she and the wolves would trail their prey's blood across the luminescent ground of her dream world, never letting her succulent-juiy prey rest cornering it every moment she had the chance and slowly exhausting it to the end of its life.
The game usually took a lot more time then was necessary, but usually it was much more satisfying, watch the more noble ones, the fighters, plummet off the side of sanity. Plenty more fun to watch them grovel and beg, watch their seemingly endless courage and determination finally drain out and crumble to dust.
After that it was when the torture set in, and she would be able to make them do the most blood-curling of things.
She could give them a knife, and have them cut out their own eyes. She could stretch their limbs so far every nerve and bone and muscle would snap. She could have them kill their most closest of friends, hold them accountable for each and every person who's light faded from their eyes, who's heart they ripped out, who's blood stained their hands and wet their skin hotter than acid.
The possibilities were endless. and that was what made it so fun!
They were her puppets then, her dolls to force across the stage. She could make them bow and laugh and play, but she could also make them weep and lick her shoes with the agony she could inflict on her lovely playthings.
The only problem was that sometimes she would take the games and performances too far–and her toys would break–leaving her to let the curtain fall and the final howl ring out through the night. The game would end, and she would. Always. Win.