Why didn’t I leave that blade stuck in the dirt? Let me answer that with a question. Could you leave a jeweled scimitar where it lay? Now let me answer my own question, no you couldn’t. It is worth too much gold. You would’ve ignored the eery violet sky and low hanging fog. You would’ve pretended not to here the wolf's howl reverberating through the scrawny pines. Foreshadow would've flew over your head as it did mine.
When I pulled the blade from the tangles of moonlit grass and admired it for the first time, I instantly felt a sting. From that moment on, that blade made my fingers hurt. Blood on the handle had not yet dried when I held it, yet no hint of who’s blood it was could be found. I wanted to be gone, before someone came looking for their treasured weapon. My heart hammered painfully when I heard the second howl of the wolf, closer.
The wolf's thoughts entered my mind when I held the weapon, not in words, but emotions. The angry wolf intended to kill me for touching that blade.
Weaving between the pine trees and leaping over roots is as easy as you would imagine; it brings a feeling of exhilaration and deft athleticism. Branches slapped my face, which felt longer than before and thorns pricked me in horrible places, but my skin had thickened. I didn’t have time to worry about it much, everything was a blur and I had to run.
Another howl and the
smell of flesh caught me off guard. I couldn't tell if I were chasing
or escaping. Stupidly, I looked back and tripped over my own clumsy
ankle, but then I was running again, on my hands and my feet. None of
it made sense.
My giant wet eyes stared at frightened man as I flew into a mad leap. His chest looked round as an oak tree, his paws where white and soft. I had a shot at him, even with that scimitar in his hand. He shouldn't have picked up my blade, I realized. That's why I was so upset with him.
The man swung at my belly in hopes that it would cut my hide and guts would pour out of me. The blade passed too early me and my body rammed into his. My jaws sank into his throat and locked. He’d never killed before, I could taste that in his blood. His neck cracked and he stopped tossing. I had to be sure that he died afraid.