HOME | DD

Description
He broke through the thick brush like a wild beast, like the wild beast he was raised as. He ran over the soft crunch of newly fallen leaves and the sharp snap of twigs and branches, the pads of his feet well used to harsh conditions. A large gash above his left eye freely loosed blood down into his eye, blurring his vision with a haze of red. His mane was matted to his head and neck, slick with blood, sweat, and mud. He pushed angrily at ivy vines and low hanging branches that tried to arrest his flight, snapping them without hesitation or problem. He growled lowly, knowing he should be quiet but not caring, his thoughts a mix of images and the few words he managed to pick up after nearly twenty years of life. One in particular slashed viciously through his consciousness again and again, "Death, death, death." Images of swords and blood, of fighting and victory accompanied the words, "Death, death, death."

Yelling broke out behind him and he crouched low on all fours, stalking slowly through the underbrush. Men swarmed in through the trees around him, looking carefully through the foliage for any sign of him. "I found something!" He heard, not knowing exactly what that meant. As the men gathered around something, he quietly, slowly edged over stones and twigs toward them. There were very few of the men in their strange metal shirts, maybe enough to count on one hand. He held up three claw-like fingers, one for each man, and then nodded his furry head. Narrowing his slitted eyes through the dark and the canopy of the trees, he pounced on the nearest man, wringing one arm around the man's head. Without a cry, he snapped the man's neck with a meaty crunch.

Unfortunately, the others still heard the sound amidst the relative quiet of the forest. The other two men broke off from their observation and tried to flank him, swords held out as if to ward him off. After so many years fighting for his life against his own family, with claw and tooth and sword, these little armored gnats raised more ire than fear. Brandishing his claws and rising to his full height, the former slave tried to intimidate his assailants. It worked quite well. The two men faltered, one falling back and tripping on the brush, the other keeping his feet but nearly losing his grip on the sword held perilously between them.

The choice was obvious. The once-slave leaped forward, closing the distance between himself and the hunter who was still standing instantaneously. The man staggered back, blindly swinging his short sword at the leaping mancat and missing horribly. Before the man could register his failure, the slave had sunk his claws into the soft, unprotected flesh of the man's neck. Great hunks of red, bloody flesh were gouged out of his neck as the hunter's hands feebly flew to his wounds, eyes glossing. The slave-cat rolled through the leaves, adrenaline pumping fear and anger into every fiber of his being, before he stopped, crouching in the dark as he narrowed his nearly-glowing yellow eyes against the fallen man who had just barely managed to regain his footing. There was a good two-man distance between them, but that might as well have been two inches. The slave bounded forward before his foe could react, grabbing his sword arm in one, great claw and wrenching the blade from him. As the sword plummetted to be obscured by leaves and twigs, the lion-headed man reached up with his other hand and closed it firmly around the slave hunter's windpipe, choking off a scream. There was a gurgle and a sickening snap, and it was suddenly dark and quiet again, the only sound the mancat's heavy breathing.

He stalked quietly to where the men had gathered. The dead and rotting carcass of a large wild boar lay only partly covered by the brush. It was an old kill, it's tusks haphazardly lopped off. It's body was putrid and it looked as though it was a part of the forest, more grass than beast. Still, his tongue darted out, licking his snout and short whiskers. As he bent down toward the rotted beast, stomach growling aggressively, more shouts erupted from behind him and to the left, no doubt drawn by the last hunter's gurgling scream.

Almost in an instant, the slave was off again, leaping over fallen logs and under low branches and around trees both great of girth and barely saplings. If it wasn't for his odd racial heritage, such a flight would have been exceedingly difficult, especially with the blood still flowing -though somewhat abated now- from the wound above his left eye. Even though his vision was tinted a light crimson, he could still clearly pick out every tree and branch barring his path, every log and twig that threatened to betray him with even the slightest misstep.

More yells echoed behind him as the slave-cat suddenly found his flight arrested by a stream cutting through his path; he found himself mesmerized by the sight of so much clear, clean water. The only streams he had ever witnessed even remotely like this before were terrible rivers of gore flowing and ebbing wildly in the gladiatorial pits he had spent his life in. Water had been scarce to him, even when he performed well. To see so much so readily before him... it was overwhelming. As he waded out waist-deep into the stream, feet feeling the cool mud and smooth stones at the bottom, the lion-like slave felt almost at peace for a moment. A brief, paper-thin moment that was torn like a flimsy cloth as he only barely heard the whiz-ing sound before the heavy thunk of the impact of the arrow in the meat of his thickly muscled arm.

Forgetting the serenity and necessity for quiet of the moment before, he let out a loud, agonized roar that alerted every hunter in the forest to his presence. Twisting from the pain and the impact, the slave-cat hit the water with a large splash. Though the pain was great, it was not crippling, and the great tiger-man gritted his bared fangs and pulled himself from the groping mud of the stream bed. Again running through the forest, he had no time to think of being quiet as adrenaline coursed liquid fright into his veins, pushing the pain from his body and stirring him to ever faster speeds. A volley of arrows, though, proved too fast even for the lionman as another arrow took him in the back as he hit the very precipice of the forest. Just a few more feet and he would have been an open target nonetheless, and more likely a furry pincushion not long after. He tumbled forward, the shafts of both arrows snapping painfully as he rolled and collided with a large tree.

This was the end. This was "Death." And the slave knew it. Out of stamina and determination, he laid face-down in the dirt, leaves, and twigs, awaiting the cold point of the blade or spear he had sent so many of his own to their demise with.

"What are you doing out here?" The voice was quiet and hard to hear, almost like an echo, as if it came from a long distance. A hand, warm and kind, fell on his back. "Oh, you poor thing, you. An arrow... no... two." Suddenly, the lion-headed slave felt what he could think of only as pure warmth spread across his back, followed by a strange wiggling sensation near his right shoulder and then another in the back of his left arm. "You look almost like death itself. You must be cold, frightened. Here; let me roll you over..." Something sunk into the matted fur on one of his arms, the uninjured one, and pushed him onto his back.

From his hazy, blood-infused vision the man-feline came almost face-to-face with a man more elderly than any he had seen before. It's face was wrinkled like someone had crumpled vellum, but split by a wide, warm smile. It's eyes were almost rheumy and sunken, but belying something otherworldly. Still, his instinct for survival and his hatred of men ran so great that his uninjured arm, still held partly of the old man, strained to hold itself up, trying to wrap his great claws around the old man's exposed throat. Before the arm had made it halfway, the old man put one hand -or tried to- around the injured tiger-slave's thick wrist and patted his arm with the other. "I know, I know," the old man repeated over and over, his smile never fading but becoming more forlorn, "Don't worry; you're safe now, my friend."

As his vision went black, slipping into the dark folds of unconsciousness, one word went through the shavjrel's mind again and again, "Friend, friend, friend." Images of smiling and the warmth of the sun accompanied that word, "Friend, friend, friend."

Description
He broke through the thick brush like a wild beast, like the wild beast he was raised as. He ran over the soft crunch of newly fallen leaves and the sharp snap of twigs and branches, the pads of his feet well used to harsh conditions. A large gash above his left eye freely loosed blood down into his eye, blurring his vision with a haze of red. His mane was matted to his head and neck, slick with blood, sweat, and mud. He pushed angrily at ivy vines and low hanging branches that tried to arrest his flight, snapping them without hesitation or problem. He growled lowly, knowing he should be quiet but not caring, his thoughts a mix of images and the few words he managed to pick up after nearly twenty years of life. One in particular slashed viciously through his consciousness again and again, "Death, death, death." Images of swords and blood, of fighting and victory accompanied the words, "Death, death, death."

Yelling broke out behind him and he crouched low on all fours, stalking slowly through the underbrush. Men swarmed in through the trees around him, looking carefully through the foliage for any sign of him. "I found something!" He heard, not knowing exactly what that meant. As the men gathered around something, he quietly, slowly edged over stones and twigs toward them. There were very few of the men in their strange metal shirts, maybe enough to count on one hand. He held up three claw-like fingers, one for each man, and then nodded his furry head. Narrowing his slitted eyes through the dark and the canopy of the trees, he pounced on the nearest man, wringing one arm around the man's head. Without a cry, he snapped the man's neck with a meaty crunch.

Unfortunately, the others still heard the sound amidst the relative quiet of the forest. The other two men broke off from their observation and tried to flank him, swords held out as if to ward him off. After so many years fighting for his life against his own family, with claw and tooth and sword, these little armored gnats raised more ire than fear. Brandishing his claws and rising to his full height, the former slave tried to intimidate his assailants. It worked quite well. The two men faltered, one falling back and tripping on the brush, the other keeping his feet but nearly losing his grip on the sword held perilously between them.

The choice was obvious. The once-slave leaped forward, closing the distance between himself and the hunter who was still standing instantaneously. The man staggered back, blindly swinging his short sword at the leaping mancat and missing horribly. Before the man could register his failure, the slave had sunk his claws into the soft, unprotected flesh of the man's neck. Great hunks of red, bloody flesh were gouged out of his neck as the hunter's hands feebly flew to his wounds, eyes glossing. The slave-cat rolled through the leaves, adrenaline pumping fear and anger into every fiber of his being, before he stopped, crouching in the dark as he narrowed his nearly-glowing yellow eyes against the fallen man who had just barely managed to regain his footing. There was a good two-man distance between them, but that might as well have been two inches. The slave bounded forward before his foe could react, grabbing his sword arm in one, great claw and wrenching the blade from him. As the sword plummetted to be obscured by leaves and twigs, the lion-headed man reached up with his other hand and closed it firmly around the slave hunter's windpipe, choking off a scream. There was a gurgle and a sickening snap, and it was suddenly dark and quiet again, the only sound the mancat's heavy breathing.

He stalked quietly to where the men had gathered. The dead and rotting carcass of a large wild boar lay only partly covered by the brush. It was an old kill, it's tusks haphazardly lopped off. It's body was putrid and it looked as though it was a part of the forest, more grass than beast. Still, his tongue darted out, licking his snout and short whiskers. As he bent down toward the rotted beast, stomach growling aggressively, more shouts erupted from behind him and to the left, no doubt drawn by the last hunter's gurgling scream.

Almost in an instant, the slave was off again, leaping over fallen logs and under low branches and around trees both great of girth and barely saplings. If it wasn't for his odd racial heritage, such a flight would have been exceedingly difficult, especially with the blood still flowing -though somewhat abated now- from the wound above his left eye. Even though his vision was tinted a light crimson, he could still clearly pick out every tree and branch barring his path, every log and twig that threatened to betray him with even the slightest misstep.

More yells echoed behind him as the slave-cat suddenly found his flight arrested by a stream cutting through his path; he found himself mesmerized by the sight of so much clear, clean water. The only streams he had ever witnessed even remotely like this before were terrible rivers of gore flowing and ebbing wildly in the gladiatorial pits he had spent his life in. Water had been scarce to him, even when he performed well. To see so much so readily before him... it was overwhelming. As he waded out waist-deep into the stream, feet feeling the cool mud and smooth stones at the bottom, the lion-like slave felt almost at peace for a moment. A brief, paper-thin moment that was torn like a flimsy cloth as he only barely heard the whiz-ing sound before the heavy thunk of the impact of the arrow in the meat of his thickly muscled arm.

Forgetting the serenity and necessity for quiet of the moment before, he let out a loud, agonized roar that alerted every hunter in the forest to his presence. Twisting from the pain and the impact, the slave-cat hit the water with a large splash. Though the pain was great, it was not crippling, and the great tiger-man gritted his bared fangs and pulled himself from the groping mud of the stream bed. Again running through the forest, he had no time to think of being quiet as adrenaline coursed liquid fright into his veins, pushing the pain from his body and stirring him to ever faster speeds. A volley of arrows, though, proved too fast even for the lionman as another arrow took him in the back as he hit the very precipice of the forest. Just a few more feet and he would have been an open target nonetheless, and more likely a furry pincushion not long after. He tumbled forward, the shafts of both arrows snapping painfully as he rolled and collided with a large tree.

This was the end. This was "Death." And the slave knew it. Out of stamina and determination, he laid face-down in the dirt, leaves, and twigs, awaiting the cold point of the blade or spear he had sent so many of his own to their demise with.

"What are you doing out here?" The voice was quiet and hard to hear, almost like an echo, as if it came from a long distance. A hand, warm and kind, fell on his back. "Oh, you poor thing, you. An arrow... no... two." Suddenly, the lion-headed slave felt what he could think of only as pure warmth spread across his back, followed by a strange wiggling sensation near his right shoulder and then another in the back of his left arm. "You look almost like death itself. You must be cold, frightened. Here; let me roll you over..." Something sunk into the matted fur on one of his arms, the uninjured one, and pushed him onto his back.

From his hazy, blood-infused vision the man-feline came almost face-to-face with a man more elderly than any he had seen before. It's face was wrinkled like someone had crumpled vellum, but split by a wide, warm smile. It's eyes were almost rheumy and sunken, but belying something otherworldly. Still, his instinct for survival and his hatred of men ran so great that his uninjured arm, still held partly of the old man, strained to hold itself up, trying to wrap his great claws around the old man's exposed throat. Before the arm had made it halfway, the old man put one hand -or tried to- around the injured tiger-slave's thick wrist and patted his arm with the other. "I know, I know," the old man repeated over and over, his smile never fading but becoming more forlorn, "Don't worry; you're safe now, my friend."

As his vision went black, slipping into the dark folds of unconsciousness, one word went through the shavjrel's mind again and again, "Friend, friend, friend." Images of smiling and the warmth of the sun accompanied that word, "Friend, friend, friend."