Soon, Sol saw him.
Vurok was still running, but it wasn't the heroic sprint of a warrior; it was the frantic, stumbling flight of a rat fleeing a sinking ship. He burst through thickets of thorns, the sharp needles tearing at his skin, but he didn't feel the sting. His mind was a chaotic storm of adrenaline bile, and the raw, screeching instinct for self-preservation.
"Haa… haa… haa…!"
His breath came in jagged, burning gulps that tasted of copper and forest rot. Every time a branch snapped, or a bird took flight, he jumped,his eyes wide and white-rimmed. Behind him, the forest was silent, yet he felt as if the Matriarch's hot, musky breath was still spraying over his neck, her massive tusks inches from his spine.
Finally, a few miles away from the blood soaked ravine, his stamina gave out completely. He broke into a small, sun-drenched glade and collapsed against the roots of a massive tree, sliding downuntil he hit the dirt.
