FSE

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It's never easy running at night especially when your used to the dust plains of a wasted land. Now in the cool forests to the north all there is are trees to grab you with their claws or try and to gouge out an eye. I must keep at it, I must.

The air, once cool has been burning in my lungs for hours. My blood feels like it's mostly acid now. It's not determination that keeps me running, its panic.

They'll find me if I stop running. He will find me if I stop running.

You'd think that it would be harder to find someone in a forest with all that is in it, but every time I feel a soft patch of moss under paw or hear a twig break, is just another sign that I've been here. Neon billboards every step of the way if you know what you're looking for.

Paranoia has a way of playing tricks upon the mind. Every shadow hides my worst fears. Every sound tries to shatter my mind.

In different circumstances I'm sure that this forest is beautiful. The air has that fresh ozone smell after a good thunderstorm with hints of earth and spice. Fat drops still fall every so often from the canopy. Tonight there's a quarter moon that sheds enough light to turn the leaves silver and cast enough of a glow to keep running. Somewhere there's an owl off to the left hooting mornfully as if it knows more than I.

The beauty is lost to me. Now every spruce needle is barbed wire digging into my paws. The beach branches whip at my face as I rush on. Even the mud tries its best to hold onto me, squelching its' complaints as I run through it barely slowing.

There is only a little that I carry which is convenient given my current circumstances. I have a dappled forest green and oaken brown cloak that should help to hide me in the daylight if I have to hide or make a quick get away. The satchel that is slung around my shoulders is made out of oilskin from an unknown creature that is water tight and masterfully crafted. I can't forget my dagger hidden under my cloak, about six inches long, deadly from its needle sharp point to its pommel stone hilt.

The one bit of hope left that I still carry is just a band of iron and agate encircling my right middle finger. A symbol of strength, power and loyalty.

In the distance I hear the rush of water. It can't be too far. In the wasted lands you can hear water from very far if you are lucky to get enough running water. Not that you need to hear it. Everyone knows where every drop is in a desert. But here trees hide a lot more than one would think.

I press on. I have been out of water since sun down and my mouth could store tinder by this point. Just a drop, maybe two if I get greedy.

Not far to go. My strides lengthen and I pick up speed. I'm glad that I'm in nigh impeccable shape. Anything less and my heart may have either just said, "Fuck you!" Or ripped in half by this point.

I can smell the fresh cold water now. I can almost taste it. There's an irresistible urge to look over my shoulder. I need to know if they are close. They have to be. I know they are but I can't see them.

A tree branch finally gets its wish as the side of my head connects with a sizeable low hanging arm. An involuntary yelp bursts from my muzzle while stars explode into my vision and more blackness is trying to creep in from the edges. Stumbling foreword my feet are trying to find purchase in the soft ground. Failing to do so, my feet start sliding over the edge toward oblivion, to the water. Down towards the rushing cold.

Dismay at all I've gone through just to be taken out by an oversized plant is overwhelming as the blackness consumes me even before I plunge into the waters rolling and boiling below.