The hunted runs hard, breaths coming raggedly through already tortured lungs. The running has gone on too long and now it is almost impossible to be anything else other than this broken haired creature. It felt blood ooze more slowly now through the rent in its side and one of its pads, that of the left forefoot, had been ripped some hours before. Each step is a rendition of pain tuned for the express purpose of making the hunters all the more successful.

It hadn’t meant to be caught. They never meant to be caught. It really wasn’t old enough to take note and understand the danger in scenting more of its kind in the band of the shapekeepers, the oath breaker, whomever it had been, had known to change to a hound and the hunt, despite it’s ability to flight and then to long legged endurance, had been on.

Others were called. Now they close in. The creature slips down a rocky slide between high walls of basalt, half way down, losing step and tumbling, rolling, coming to a rest at the bottom. More hurts, not just the pad. Blood is upon the slide but this is from the ever opening and reopening of the foot wound. They always bled the most and it had only been an hour since the hunt had come on.

The creature stands and holding paw high, shakes itself. It must keep the blood from the ground now. There is still a chance, is there not? Still a chance.

It has tried every trick it has been taught. It has doubled back. It has used waterways. It has even flown and then gone through burrows, coming up against a great toothed digger before making it out safely to the other side and back into forest land. Still, in the bottlenecked canyon, there is little left to use as a trick and it has a sinking feeling that its inexperience is the cause of its position. It merely had not seen far enough ahead. Luck, which must be fate’s master for even the most intelligent to survive, has turned his back.

Not giving up just yet, paw against chest, it hops three legged down the shallow grade and across the small trickling stream at the base of the canyon. Behind, the rattling of rocks tells it that the hunt is nigh. Panicked, it licks at its pad and then begins to run once more, for every moment alive is another moment where the tide may turn and favor may change from hunter to hunted.

Yet, coming to the narrow width of the canyon, it finds that such time is not allotted. Ahead there are shouts and the creature stops and stares up at the high walls of rock. With a moan of terror, it tries to change once more, just once more.

They come upon it when it is still furred, but it has almost managed feet and hands. Its eyes are shut and it whimpers in fear. Genitalia being male, still its voice is soft and high pitched and filled with tears, like that of a child’s. "Please… please… pl- please…"

The hunters know better than to have mercy on a demon like this which resorts to such trickery. It does not even look like them, not having the energy to make more than a half hearted attempt to be something more recognizable. The Cierli with them huffs and stands, taking his club from one of those who had followed him. Naked, as he is not inclined to take time and give this thing one more moment with which to trick them, he raises the club high over his head and brings it down upon the creature’s skull, breaking open the still forming bone and dousing the life as easily as one would break open a melon by use of a rock.

"AH!" Amel startled, hands reaching out and finding nothing as he fell heavily to the ground, his head hitting the desk next to his bed. He rolled over with a groan and cupped the back of his skull while he attempted to gain back his senses.

"What’s with you?" a laughing girl poked her head over the edge of the bed, not minding the sheet which no longer covered her upper torso. "Poor baby.." she crooned as she laughed down at him, not all that interested in the scowl across his features.

"There wasn’t any room," he groused as he gripped the edge of the bed and pulled himself back upright.

"Awe, you’re sleeping wrong then," she smirked.

"Or just sleeping, period," he responded to the look in her eyes as he lifted the blankets and climbed back in, her skin against his like a hot branding iron.

"Exactly," she purred as she drew him into her arms. Neither of them had classes in the early morning and his drunkenness had worn off mostly. Hers was still in full force, otherwise she probably would have been gone by then. Still, he was an eternal optimist and despite the exotic-dark beauty of her and the geek-thin, pale of him, he couldn’t help but hope that should morning come, he’d have a girlfriend out of all of this adventure.

If nothing else, he’d gotten laid. Sometimes, you just had to accept that things weren’t going to get any better than they had. It paid to be realistic.

__________________

‘What will my death be like?’ he thought- and knew at once
with abrupt certainty, that it would be just like his life:
... the same balance of bearables.
~Amis