Bramblepoint five nights at freddy's

Clover ran fast and hard, doing all that she could imagine to avoid him. He still was after her, she heard it as the brush broke behind her. Her reservoir of energy was endless, but her legs ached—it was not as though she had trained to run this hard so early in her life, though wolves, fortunately, were endurant. Her top speed could not be maintained for too terribly long, however, and she was flagging—

The sight of her uncle crashing through the brush caused her to release a shaky sob. Clover did not know what to do now; did she stay and fight? She wanted to, now that she had support; in youthful fashion of a being who did not understand mortality, and in the spirit of the blood that ran through her veins, Clover wanted to jump at the opportunity to salvage her wounded pride in being forced to flee as she had. Fortunately, she had some semblance of practicality in her blood too that caused her to recognize she ought to get home, and fast. She had risked enough in straying from home to begin with, and the wolf that chased her did not seem right. The urge to get away kept her limbs moving toward the Caldera, and though she attempted to loose another howl it came out as a strangled cry, her throat constricting with fear.