06-17-2009, 05:19 PM
I don't know how Dawali's conversation with Cwmfen will go, so that's something you guys can discuss if you think it's important. For here, though, maybe the sun can have fallen the final distance and it can be dark, cold, and raining by the time Dawali arrives?
The predator had fled from its battle with the black she-wolf. It had no pride, and when the fear of death had finally emerged from the blood spattered chaos of battle, it had no reason to remain. There was a fundamental difference between a warrior and a beast, each possessed limitations that the other did not. Deliberately seeking a foe's death over one's own life was beyond a beast's abilities, self-preservation was ever present in the animal's mind, and regardless of its fury, a mere reminder of that instinct was all it had taken to break its spirit. In all likelihood, it would have killed the warrior alongside itself after these months of experience, but that was not a sacrifice the monster could fathom. Such a symbolic act was beyond its comprehension.
So the monster had run, bleeding from its head and shoulder and neck, and over a dozen other openings in its flesh, away from the white-eyed warrior and the black storm roiling above the forest at her back, and into the fiery horizon, toward the city that was its safe haven. She had not pursued it, could not, because of her leg. Nonetheless, where she was, others may well be, and it had scented others than her stalking the Halifax territory in search of it. It would return to its safe place, and hide there until morning, when it would be healed. If it saw the black she-wolf again, it would run from her. It had lost its will to fight her; after feeling the approaching promise of death twice now, it was finished entertaining those ideas. It would be worth losing meals to avoid her. She could not counter it everywhere...its conception of the future was very rough, but it understood that its own was brighter if it was spent away from her than in confrontation with her. Its primal fear overrode its calculations based on size...regardless of whatever confidence it had possessed at the outset, she was not worth the harm or the trouble.
The predator entered the house on the corner, the one with the secret room in the basement, and was dismayed. Part of the ceiling had collapsed...probably because of how recklessly it had run in earlier. The door to the sublevel was barred by debris, including a long plank which--after a fair effort--it discovered was jammed too tightly against the floorboards for it to push aside. Looking out the dirty window, it could see the last crimson sliver of the sun, igniting the landscape in the evening's final flame. That light was dimming, and the low rumble of thunder could be heard overhead. The storm was overtaking the dusk. The ancient windowpanes began tapping sharply with the impact of rain. It was calm now, but soon it would break out in full. The beast limped to the far corner of the room, just below the window, and lay itself down to rest. It would need to sleep here; the storm would only get worse.
The predator had fled from its battle with the black she-wolf. It had no pride, and when the fear of death had finally emerged from the blood spattered chaos of battle, it had no reason to remain. There was a fundamental difference between a warrior and a beast, each possessed limitations that the other did not. Deliberately seeking a foe's death over one's own life was beyond a beast's abilities, self-preservation was ever present in the animal's mind, and regardless of its fury, a mere reminder of that instinct was all it had taken to break its spirit. In all likelihood, it would have killed the warrior alongside itself after these months of experience, but that was not a sacrifice the monster could fathom. Such a symbolic act was beyond its comprehension.
So the monster had run, bleeding from its head and shoulder and neck, and over a dozen other openings in its flesh, away from the white-eyed warrior and the black storm roiling above the forest at her back, and into the fiery horizon, toward the city that was its safe haven. She had not pursued it, could not, because of her leg. Nonetheless, where she was, others may well be, and it had scented others than her stalking the Halifax territory in search of it. It would return to its safe place, and hide there until morning, when it would be healed. If it saw the black she-wolf again, it would run from her. It had lost its will to fight her; after feeling the approaching promise of death twice now, it was finished entertaining those ideas. It would be worth losing meals to avoid her. She could not counter it everywhere...its conception of the future was very rough, but it understood that its own was brighter if it was spent away from her than in confrontation with her. Its primal fear overrode its calculations based on size...regardless of whatever confidence it had possessed at the outset, she was not worth the harm or the trouble.
The predator entered the house on the corner, the one with the secret room in the basement, and was dismayed. Part of the ceiling had collapsed...probably because of how recklessly it had run in earlier. The door to the sublevel was barred by debris, including a long plank which--after a fair effort--it discovered was jammed too tightly against the floorboards for it to push aside. Looking out the dirty window, it could see the last crimson sliver of the sun, igniting the landscape in the evening's final flame. That light was dimming, and the low rumble of thunder could be heard overhead. The storm was overtaking the dusk. The ancient windowpanes began tapping sharply with the impact of rain. It was calm now, but soon it would break out in full. The beast limped to the far corner of the room, just below the window, and lay itself down to rest. It would need to sleep here; the storm would only get worse.