Tigress

 Green verdant grass. The ground is a little wet, lush and beautiful. The grass is almost spongy, and the sunlight filters down onto it, creating a dappled pattern. In one sunspot is a drop of blood. Then a few feet later there is another. And then a little further on, another. And another glistens in the sunlight like a ruby on a princess's necklace. The next is inches away, and then there's a bloody pawprint. And then there's another. Then two. Then a small pool of blood. And finally you've followed long enough to see a wounded tigress, one foot caught in a trap. 

Her fiery stripes blaze in the sunshine, but in some places they are dulled and matted, sticky with stripes of drying blood. They've turned to a russet color, and under the fresh wounds, you can see scars from past battles. One ear is torn and it's attracting flies. She holds her paw off the ground. She stumbles and lets out a roar of pain as trap pushes further into her paw. Blood is dripping slowly from her sides and paw to the grass, and she stops, lying down and licking herself, trying to keep from becoming infected. 

She's exhausted. Her eyes are glassy and full of pain. She slumps, too weak to stand anymore, with no way to free herself from this new source of pain. Her scars and wounds tell a story. A story of many fierce battles. The stripes in the middle of her back tell another story, and you see very old scars where the skin has stretched with age. There is no fur growing over them, on her hind legs. It must have been a very old wound, and you wonder what caused it. You can tell it has affected her, pushing her to fight for what she has. She cannot receive help, she is too dangerous to be approached. There is no one to help her, and she cannot ask, there in the middle of the woods. There is no hope for her. Not even a little.