You run, crashing through the grey forest.
Twisted branches clawing like wraiths, hungering for your soul...
Bathed in fevered sweat, gasping for more air, Something chasing, crashing close behind...
Gaining every time you slip or stumble.
The trees are thinning, the forest's edge lies ahead, the sound of running water.
It's getting closer, it's breathing deep and steady, tireless, ever closer...
You clear the forest, a river nearby, run for the river! The pain of breathing slows your steps...
Any moment now... it's steps pound just behind you... Just a few more steps... your heart races...
A final burt of speed as you fall into to the safe embrace of the frigid waters. Angry howls of protest at the banks.
The water is dark, heavy... the sun is almost up. Swim to the far shore.
Something grabs your leg. Then the other... pulls you down... too weak to fight it...
No energy, no air, no will... You surrender... pulled deeper still...
A final gasp. Unblinking eyes watch the mornings first light hit the surface of the river high above...
Chaqual wakes with another gasping start and a cough. Wiping the drool and spittle from his lower lip and chin, he observes his familiar, dark surroundings. Barrels, boxes, and bags of various size stacked and strewn about the celler used to supply the tavern upstairs. A couple of empty potato sacks tossed nearby, sometimes used to protect against the cold and sometimes used to ward against some unseen terror of the night. Dawn's early light peering down from somewhere above, spotlighting fresh droppings left behind by one of the nights many visitors.
The familiar scent of sweat and urine reaches his nose and he wills his aching bones to rise from the damp stone floor. He whispers a short prayer of thanks to Sheru for sparing him the nights usual round of horrors and sets about preparing for the coming day.
