𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐌'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐘 † THE WITCHER (ORIGINAL)

𝖎𝖎. 𝔣𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔤 (𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔱𝔴𝔬)

The Nazairian tried to make himself look bigger, puffing out his chest and rising to his feet. Even standing, his head only came to the height of the warg's massive brown shoulder. She towered ominously over him as a lion above his prey. Her growl ripped through the air and was the only thing he could hear over the constant drum of rain in Ruselm's ears.

Is this where I die?

They stared at each other, eye-to-eye.

Is this where it gets me?

The warg pounced, a movement that happened so fast Ruselm barely had time to roll out of the way and escape her outstretched claws. His left shoulder began to burn but he didn't dare take the time to look at it, for fear of slowing down and losing his life as a result. For once in his miserable life, Ruselm found himself scared of the mess he'd gotten into. Death was a real and imminent danger! If he didn't wise up soon—

She slammed snout-first into the tree he'd been hiding behind, a pained yowl escaping her throat as Ruselm took off in the opposite direction as fast as he could. The young author knew this warg would only be stunned for a few moments, although it granted him precious time that he didn't previously possess. He had to think, and fast.

Legs pumping as fast as he could get them to move, Ruselm bounded away from the river's edge and deeper into the forest he'd come from; jumping over a fallen log as he not-so skillfully lost the foot trail the locals had steadily worn into the earth, losing all sense of direction as adrenaline rushed through his veins faster than the river surging downstream. His heart was racing in his chest. His mind turned over itself. His breath came in gasps. The textile feeling in Ruselm's fingers faded as he could only stare forward, everything beyond his peripheral vision fading to complete darkness.

He was panicking.

The beast howled somewhere behind him. It was a promise of vengeance for the ache in her snout, and if he listened hard enough he could hear the warg gaining on him as she tore violently through the forest after him. After her big game, her quarry.

That's what he was. Prey. And the hunter was hot on his heels.

Ruselm slid under a half-rotten log that rested across another tree. The downpour of rain had turned the dirt soft and mushy underfoot by now. He slid quite easily, mud caking the bottom of his boots. Once he was clear of the log, Ruselm sprang upright and began running once more.

A resounding crack! echoed throughout the forest as the she-warg, confident and supercilious, charged into the log he'd managed to slip under. She barreled her way through it, unfazed, completely shattering the wood before the immense power and strength that rested within her very bones. If he weren't fearing for his life, Ruselm would admire how unbothered the warg was after such an act but with her feverish barks and howls growing in volume, he couldn't focus on anything else.

He was running out of places to go. If Ruselm kept pushing forward, the warg would catch up. She'd eat him. If he turned left or right, there was no telling what was in either direction.

The village was not an option. He couldn't endanger the people there.

Where could he go? Where could he hide? How could he escape? His mind pushed for answers, fear high in his throat and heart beating a drum only he could hear.

No village, no trees, no caves would stop her from pursuing him. She would track him to the ends of the earth because wargs don't usually let their prey get away. Running meant dying. Hiding meant dying. Staying meant dying. Options were running out.