Dawnlark Plains darkest hour

Druid picked up on the sound of rapidly approaching footfalls and an accompanying snarl only seconds before fangs sank deep into the same thigh once torn open during a hunt gone wrong. The sound that tore out of her throat could only be called a squeal as her posterior dipped under her attacker’s weight.

She tried to pitch herself to the side and break free from the stranger’s hold, mindless to the damage it would do. Druid did move with enough force to break the bite, scrambling sideways and catching a glimpse of her masked attacker. She didn’t recognize her, though there was something familiar about the foam at the corners of her mouth, stained pink by Druid’s own blood.

Driven by stark terror and a rush of adrenaline, Druid clawed at the earth and propelled herself back toward Rivenwood. She never saw Redd, much less heard her snarl, as she tried to flee the scene before the madwoman could launch a second assault.