*original version*
Set your pulse racing in the mysterious island of Azkalar-Zar, where danger and mystery lurk around every corner. A race called Lycanthropes, have embarked on a crucial mission to replenish their species, snatching women from thei...
With my throat burning and my skin raw, I fill my lungs with rapid breaths, saliva filling my mouth like a fountain. Warm, wet rivulets run down my arms, and I wipe them on my tattered gown, painting dark streaks on the fabric. That thing cut me deep, but the adrenaline flowing through my veins knocks the edge off the pain.
I find myself at a crossroads, hearing the Lycan snarling behind me, held up by the carnivorous plant that wanted to eat me alive. Perhaps it has no preference for what it eats and has snacked on a Lycan or more. I don’t want to remain in this place any longer than necessary. But which way is it to the centre and how do I choose between left and right or straight ahead when every direction looks the same?
Woodland trees loom over me like giants, swaying from side to side in the haunting breeze, with rustling leaves and my heart thumping in my ears. My head aches. Everywhere hurts. My feet drag through the dirt as I run, not having the courage to look back, too afraid of what I’ll see.
A startling squawk spikes my heart with panic, and I look up, paranoid it’s another threat. My eyes widen at the strange-looking creature as it peers from an overhanging branch above me, its head twitching, beak closed, its beady eyes unblinking, much bigger than a vulture but just as ugly. Its glinting eyes follow me as I creep beneath it, expecting it to attack like everything else in this unearthly hellhole. But to my surprise, it doesn’t. I don't turn left or right; I keep moving forward one lumbered step at a time.
With nothing to bind my wounds with and not seeing anything around that'll suffice, my blood drips onto the ground and absorbs into the earth. There's nothing but barren, spindly trees and not much else. No ferns. No foliage. Not here amongst the tall, dead trees protruding from the dry loose chippings and crumbled logs. What if I chose the wrong trail?
Crossing my wounded arms against my chest, I turn around to look back and see nothing but forest and darkness closing in. It all looks the same. I tear a strip of silk from the hem of my gown and tie it to a gnarled branch - something to mark my passing. There's not enough of it to use as bandages, not unless I want to be naked. I at least want to die with dignity. So, I keep going, limping for what feels like forever, my body numb with pain, teeth chattering from the shock and trauma of the horror I’ve been through. But as I come across the same torn piece of garment hanging limply on the branch, I sag against the hollow trunk and let the tears flow.
I’m never getting out of here. No one can help me.
Heavy footsteps thunder all around me, sounding unclear of where they’re coming from. Moving clumsily, I limp faster, whimpering through the pain. Unwilling to give up and weakened with fatigue, my footsteps falter but don't stop. Rough hands seize my waist, and then something large and heavy wrestles me to the ground. A solid body collides with mine, and dirt coats my face, filling my mouth with forest debris. I can turn my head to spit it out and scream. The forest whirls around me as I’m abruptly flipped onto my back, and then a firm, calloused hand clamps over my mouth to muffle my cries. Glowing yellow eyes, a furry, beastly face with a muzzle, and sharp, snapping teeth. It’s him. They Lycan warrior. He’s caught me, and now, he’s going to kill me. I buck and thrash desperately to free myself from the crushing weight. It’s useless. I’m no match for him.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, with all the ferocity of a monster.
Frozen with terror, I dare not move, watching his fur recede. It melts into his tawny skin, baring his muscled biceps, and as I glance up at his face, I’m met with the grey eyes of my Lycan warrior.
My Lycan?
I blink away the intrusive thought, because how can I think that after everything his people have done to me?
He’s a brute. A Neanderthal. A monster.
“If I remove my hand, will you scream?” he asks in a comforting tone to placate me.
Having no reason to trust him, I shake my head from side to side, hot tears rolling down my temples and into my hairline. He moves his hand away and wipes the moisture away with his thumb, bringing it to his mouth to taste.
“You’re dehydrated. You must drink?” he rasps.
Grit crunches between my teeth, leaving an earthy texture on my tongue. “Yes, please,” I reply, needing to cleanse my mouth more than anything.
Gently lifting me, he helps me back up on my feet, unfastens a water skin from the belt, and holds it out for me to take. With an unsteady hand, I take it without question and swish some water in my mouth, spitting the first mouthful onto the ground. Then I gulp down another few chugs of cool fresh water. My brittle tongue welcomes the moisture and the sweet relief it brings.
Perhaps I should show more caution. After all, he is the hunter, and I’m his prey.
“Thank you,” I mutter timidly, handing the water skin back to him.
He fixes it to his belt, then advances on me, taking my hands and studying the wounds on my arms. Then, he does something utterly revolting. He licks the scratches, lapping at the blood like an unholy fiend.
“Get off me.” His actions repulse me.
“Hold still,” he scolds, forcing me to endure it.
Unable to pull away, I succumb to the gentle slither of his tongue as it glides across my wounds. A strange, comforting sensation washes over me, lessens the pain, and quenches the sting. Then, astonishingly, my skin knits together as if my injuries had never occurred.
“My name is Diego; what is yours?” he asks, the deep accented voice rolling from his tongue in a husky rumble. He tilts his head as he awaits my reply.
I want to ask him why he cares when this was supposed to be a hunt, but I’m scared. I don’t want to anger him if it means I’ll get to live a bit longer.
“Carina,” I answer.
“Carina,” he repeats, his voice softening.
Diego’s exotic accent allows it to roll from his tongue as sweet as honey. It’s nice. My heart flutters as he smiles, his eyes buoyant with mirthfulness. This eases the tension.
“I like that. Your name means purity, just like you, so innocent, so perfect,” Diego speaks fondly of me despite knowing nothing about me. Reaching out, he brushes two fingers along my face as if mapping out a memory, his eyes glimmering wondrously, compelling me to gaze into them and find the man behind the intimidating visard.
“What are you going to do with me?” My voice quivers with nervousness.
Diego removes his hand, his eyes darkening. “Nothing that you won’t enjoy,” he answers as if he is certain of it.
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