To Hunt the Death

The hunt never ends. But after a rough battle, the blinking stars over his head seemed blurred and the forest denser. The shadows were creeping around him as they felt blood on him. And there it was, a lot of blood, trickling, and pooling from his wounded flank and leg, like a stream of rubies. 

skekMal’s tired hand laid on the dead animal’s corpse, which he eventually slew. But not without costs. Each hunt could be his last, he knew that, but even if he was prepared, he didn’t  w a n t  that. He liked to live, conquer his limits, each day, from morning til night filled with lumimnescent light of Thra.

His gaze landed on the sharp jagged wound coming from his chest to his hip. A slight hiss escaped his beak. That was too easy. Too easily the animal wounded him. When he gets off this ordeal – and he was not sure, if he will, not at all – he will be more cautious. Last hunts made him feel invincible, and this one put him again on Thra’s surface. 

Curse it; he spat saliva, which was not mixed with blood. If he was wounded internally, it will be much more difficult to mend his hide.

But the animal was laying next to him, dead, very dead, and he was still alive. If he manages to move, he will go to his camp and mend himself.

He wouldn’t be skekMal, if he didn’t try.

He wouldn’t be a skeksis, if he didn’t want to win over death. One more time.

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