The Runner

[Miles]

The light of the setting moon comes low through the deep, dark coniferous forest. The great trees, ordinarily so full of life, are quiet, black in the dark before the dawn.

Alendir will his breath to steady, his heart to slow. Motionless, his keen ears wait for the sound he hopes will not comes, his nose lifted, smelling the wind. His reverie is broken by the soft sound of blood dripping from his matted, tangled hair. As if for the first time he notices pain from deep, open wounds, and he feels weary.

The elf slides to a crouch, his back to the wide tree he has chosen for cover. After a last look for his pursuers, he begins to dress the worst of his injuries. A rend in his forearm, the mark of cruel claws, deep scratches in his enchanted wooden armor and worst, a cut in his scalp that is the source of most of the blood.

Alendir withdraws a dried oak leaf from a small pouch at his belt, crushing it in his hand and putting it to his head wound, muttering the words of a chant, wincing with the effort. The wound closes, stops bleeding and the elf sighs his thanks to Rillifane.

Carefully peering around the tree, he ensures he is safe, at least for another moment. He takes stock of his situation and is not heartened by the conclusion he reaches. His armor, while battered, will hold long enough, and his razor-sharp spear, darkened with dried blood, will serve its purpose as well as he can employ it. It is not his lack of physical resources, though, that worries the weary woodland warrior, rather it is his exhaustion. He was taken from the battle at the Springs, from his companion’s sides near to a day ago, and this was his first rest.

A dull ache throbs in his head, a low tone that brings into relief the clear pain of his wounds. His mind, normally calm as a forest pool, is scattered in this, the deepest of nights the druid has known.

As he folds another leaf of Belladonna into his mouth, he wonders if he will have the strength of mind to harness nature’s power for his defense when the need arises. If the need arises, he reminds himself, checking back behind the tree. His head protests at the thought, and he returns his back to the tree’s trunk.

He wonders how the battle at the Springs fares. Has it, he hopes, slackened off now that the abominable Fang has gotten suitable prey for his hunt? It must have, for to think that his sacrifice is in vain is to invite despair.

Thoughts of Arien, Arakiel, Dain and the rangers of Daggersprings having respite from the seemingly endless assault brings a smile to his face. Lucan will be with them too, if he has any sense.

The Second Dagger of the Circle of Seven knows peace again for that moment, slipping into meditation, his mind finding that calm, cool vision of verdant green that he knows as the Leaflord’s forest. If death returns him to that place, then may it come swiftly.

After what could have been a day, a month, a moment, his tenuous tie to peace is disrupted.

Green is replaced by an upwelling of red, blood clouding his mind’s eye. Eyes, wild as the wolf’s but cruel, lustful turn their attention to the quiet elf. The eyes of the Beast, he knows, having seen such before. The gaze fades, replaced with the sound of heavy breathing. His sense of the world returns, and the druid is instantly alert, willing himself motionless to hide the sudden hammering of his heart.

He hears two of them, frontrunners for the were-pack, most likely, approaching the tree with some attempt at stealth. Alendir’s life preserving instinct comes to the fore, the mind that has so recently entertained thoughts of welcoming death now rebels in the presence of it.

The powerful elf rises to a crouch, gripping his long spear tightly in one hand, the other going to the tree for support. Still, he listens to the approaching hunters, giving himself time enough for his dizziness to pass.

The footsteps stop. There is a loud, snuffling noise, and the sound of a nose being brought near the ground reaches Alendir’s sensitive ears. They’ve smelled blood. The elf tenses himself for the charge.

With a fell howl, the two lycanthropes rush around the tree, one to each side. Alendir moves fluidly to meet the first wolf to appear, rising from his crouch to bury the point of his spear in the soft space underneath the creature’s jaw. Before he can free the polearm, the second wolf pounces, great jaws open, aiming for the back of the elf’s neck. But Alendir is already moving, dropping into a roll to both avoid the attack and free his spear. Flashing claws and glistening teeth miss their mark, striking a glancing blow to Alendir’s armor as the elf dodges away. The combatants rise, silent now in their deadly focus.

The werewolf charges, scoring a blow to Alendir’s side but earning himself a mark from the spear. The elf is quick, but not quick enough. His weary legs betray him as he attempts to dodge another pass, and he stumbles, giving the rabid wolf enough time to close the distance between them. Alendir manages to bring his spear up in some defense before the large shapechanger grapples him.

The elf puts all of his strength into a shove with his spear, the force of which knocks the werewolf off his balance, enough so for the elf’s purpose. Quick as a viper, he strikes, teeth finding the unprepared creature’s throat. The werewolf lets loose a choked cry of pain and twists away, then finds himself pinned to the ground, the spear that has skewered him already being wrenched free.

Hearing the maddened howls of the main pack getting closer, Alendir runs. His legs, accustomed to running great distances, burn as if they’re on fire, his head throbs and his wounds ache, but still the long-limbed elf runs.

Obstacles that would stop any other creature are left behind, the elf melting through briars and hedges, bounding over creeks and rock-falls with the woodland stride of the druid. There is no thought in his mind save the coming dawn, no destination but home.

A rock face looms ahead and Alendir runs for the break he knows will be in it. Reaching the narrow gap he turns, listening to gauge the distance to his pursuers. Two minutes back, if that. The shape-changers have not slowed through the long hunt, but quickened, evidence of the evil force that drives them on, the penalty they will pay for failure.

The long-limbed druid slips through the rock wall, coming into a narrow, steep sided gully that opens out at the far end to the forest again. He moves through thick underbrush, ducking low hanging branches, pushing through thick webs. He frowns and picks up his pace. Last time he passed this way there were no spiders.

He moves around another large web that blocks his path, noticing too late the black, multifaceted eyes that have expected this. Alendir cries out and moves to run past, but the aranea is faster. A blur of motion, the heavy, chitinous shape-changer casts a sticky web over the druid, intent on preventing him from escaping. Already in full stride, Alendir does not attempt to dodge the web, but runs right through it, the silken strands sliding off him as if repelled. Five more paces, and he’s through the gap on the far side.

Alendir runs full tilt into two waiting werewolves that had moved to block his exit upon hearing his approach. One he bowls over, earning himself a wound on the shoulder. The other opens a long cut across his ribs as he flies past, then falls, legs tangled with the fallen lycanthrope. The standing wolf leaps onto Alendir’s back, and all is rolling, roiling chaos.

Alendir calls to the Wolf for aid, his cry more a gasp as the pain in his head flares. A fourth body appears and joins the melee, clearing Alendir’s back of a werewolf. The elf butts and kicks, corded muscles clearing enough room enough to bring his enchanted spear to bear in a strike that incapacitates one howling wolf. Blood streaming from his many wounds, Alendir turns in time to see the summoned dire wolf lower his heavy head and bowl the second werewolf from his feet.

“Come Brother!” calls Alendir, before, with a cracking, ripping noise, he takes the form of a wolf and speeds into the dark.

[Miles]

Part 2 coming at some point.

[Mizbiz]

Thid was so intense. Can't wait until no 2.

[Cynon]

OMG awsome! You actually make me wanna play a... omg... me, me wanting to play a druid. Damn you!

[Miles]

OMG awsome! You actually make me wanna play a... omg... me, me wanting to play a druid. Damn you!

Thank you! That's what I call an endorsement.

[XooooF]

wow.. Nice Miles

Hope you recrute a bunch of druids whit this

looking forward to read part two.