His enemies, his prey, were, in another time (about five minutes ago), his best friends—this, the cruel reality of the battle.
He stalks. He gives chase. He pounces. His prey is always held fast within his intense focus, whether running away, or creeping up in a futile ambush attempt from behind. Nothing escapes his keen senses, his unwavering instinct.
Then, and only then, the giant warrior succumbs to the need for rest himself.
Sleep soundly, my dear battle-weary soldiers. For you must certainly rise to play-fight yet another day. If not for you, I fear the couch will most assuredly fall victim, yet again, to the wrath of his boredom.