He hadn't thought that the mangy mongrels would pursue him this far, but they were determined to chase him beyond the village borders, if not outright kill him. He knows not what direction to take, only that he must keep running.
The streets widen and the mists grow thick. There are no narrow alleys or bolt holes where he might dart into for safety. His lungs burn and his muscles ache from the exertion, but he has to keep going. One wrong turn—one false step—and he will fall prey to the snapping jaws growing ever closer to his heels...
But there, up ahead, wrought-iron bars flanked by ivy-encrusted stone walls! If he can just make his way though, then he will be safe from his pursuers.
Without breaking stride, he scrabbles up the gate and lands hard on the other side. He stops to catch his breath, looking over his shoulder at what lay beyond the gate.
The dogs never make it within a stone's throw of the gate. Their glimmering eyes watch him though the mists, heads lowered and tails tucked between their legs. They whimper pitifully and circle one another before slinking away, knowing that their prey is thoroughly out of reach.
Now that he is relatively safe, Halsin thinks it best to explore the grounds and see if he can find something to eat. His stomach howls with the same ferocity as the dogs that had been pursuing him, and it edges out over the fear and apprehension of wandering alone in an unknown place.
But just barely.
He stalks through the mists, lamp-yellow eyes wide and bright in the dimness. The smell of rot permeates everything, making it difficult to pick out the passing scent of potential prey. But a house this large must harbor a large colony of rats, and so he slinks along the perimeter, looking for small cracks or openings in the foundation.
As he rounds a corner, he picks up a familiar scent—a canid musk that is not at all like the half-feral dogs that roam the city streets. It carries the scent of the forest: wet moss and dry leaves, fetid loam and decay.
He freezes as primal fear slowly raises the fur along his arching spine. A low mrowl builds in the back of his throat as dark shapes move through the mists, each one bearing a pair of gleaming discs that reflect the light with a predator's eyeshine.
Wolves. How many, he cannot guess. Their shapes seem to meld and separate from one another, like shadows thrown upon a wall by flickering candlelight. Not even his feline eyes can penetrate through the mists.
Slowly, Halsin backs away, ears folded back as another low, fearful noise is squeezed from his lungs. Let me leave in peace.
But something in his heart tells him that these beasts will not let him go so easily. Their hunger, like that of the forest, is a palpable thing which weighs heavily in the air, much like the mist itself.
If they give chase, he isn't at all certain he will be able to outrun them. He's already exhausted much of his energy fleeing from those half-feral dogs, and fear alone might not be enough of a goad to save him.
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The streets widen and the mists grow thick. There are no narrow alleys or bolt holes where he might dart into for safety. His lungs burn and his muscles ache from the exertion, but he has to keep going. One wrong turn—one false step—and he will fall prey to the snapping jaws growing ever closer to his heels...
But there, up ahead, wrought-iron bars flanked by ivy-encrusted stone walls! If he can just make his way though, then he will be safe from his pursuers.
Without breaking stride, he scrabbles up the gate and lands hard on the other side. He stops to catch his breath, looking over his shoulder at what lay beyond the gate.
The dogs never make it within a stone's throw of the gate. Their glimmering eyes watch him though the mists, heads lowered and tails tucked between their legs. They whimper pitifully and circle one another before slinking away, knowing that their prey is thoroughly out of reach.
Now that he is relatively safe, Halsin thinks it best to explore the grounds and see if he can find something to eat. His stomach howls with the same ferocity as the dogs that had been pursuing him, and it edges out over the fear and apprehension of wandering alone in an unknown place.
But just barely.
He stalks through the mists, lamp-yellow eyes wide and bright in the dimness. The smell of rot permeates everything, making it difficult to pick out the passing scent of potential prey. But a house this large must harbor a large colony of rats, and so he slinks along the perimeter, looking for small cracks or openings in the foundation.
As he rounds a corner, he picks up a familiar scent—a canid musk that is not at all like the half-feral dogs that roam the city streets. It carries the scent of the forest: wet moss and dry leaves, fetid loam and decay.
He freezes as primal fear slowly raises the fur along his arching spine. A low mrowl builds in the back of his throat as dark shapes move through the mists, each one bearing a pair of gleaming discs that reflect the light with a predator's eyeshine.
Wolves. How many, he cannot guess. Their shapes seem to meld and separate from one another, like shadows thrown upon a wall by flickering candlelight. Not even his feline eyes can penetrate through the mists.
Slowly, Halsin backs away, ears folded back as another low, fearful noise is squeezed from his lungs. Let me leave in peace.
But something in his heart tells him that these beasts will not let him go so easily. Their hunger, like that of the forest, is a palpable thing which weighs heavily in the air, much like the mist itself.
If they give chase, he isn't at all certain he will be able to outrun them. He's already exhausted much of his energy fleeing from those half-feral dogs, and fear alone might not be enough of a goad to save him.