The sunset flared at his back like a dying star, and Ezekiel watched as his arrow fell short. His eyes narrowed. Some pagan luck saved the brute from what had been a well-aimed shot. His knuckles tightened to bone-white under fine fur and the savage spat a curse to whatever deity had saved the brute.
Time turned against him. A bear in the guise of a wolf-dog came rushing into the forest from the mountains. The earth moved under Ezekiel’s feet and his body listened as his ears could not. Now a wounded but infuriated typhoon rushed upon him. Almost instantly the disconnect of the soldier occurred; Ezekiel’s eyes hollowed despite the rage still burning within them. His body fell into a fighter’s stance, dropping his weight as to best meet this charge.
He flung the bow and quiver aside, knowing they would serve him no more. There was enough time for him to read the approaching mass before he rushed forward to meet it. In a singular motion he swept low, extending raptor’s talons and slashing out at the behemoth’s side. This fight could not be won by strength alone. Wear him down, the voice that was and was not his own ordered. Burn his heart. Finally, Ezekiel snarled—it was a feral thing, one that did not suit their more evolved kin.
For Ezekiel was, at heart, a savage.
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