NO.
I catch him in two steps. I grab him by the back of his furs.
I break his back over my knee.
CRACK.
Done.
Eight.
A moan. The one with the broken arm. He is crawling.
I walk to him. I stomp.
Now, silence.
Only the crackle of fire. And the moan of the wind.
I stand in the middle of the burning village.
The blood is everywhere. It is on me. A hot, wet coat. It drips from my claws. It drips from my tusks.
The cuts on my shoulder and side burn. They feel good. I am alive.
The red haze is a storm. It is howling in my head. It is gleeful. It sings.
But... the song is fading.
No more threats.
The elven magic screams. It is hungry. It is not satisfied. It wants more. It wants all. It demands I tear down the huts. It demands I kill the hiding prey.
Kill.
I turn, my claws flexed. My muscles vibrate with the need to kill. More. I need...
Suddenly, a scent.
It cuts through the storm. It slices the smoke. It covers the stench of blood. It cuts through the red haze.
It is her.
Betty.
The red haze screams. It fights. No! Kill! MORE!
But her scent... it is a chain. It pulls. It is the anchor.
It’s the cool water on the fire.
I turn. My movements are stiff. Heavy.
She is there.
Standing in the doorway of my hovel.
Her pale skin is the color of the snow at her feet. Her wide eyes are blue. So blue. She is shaking. The scent of her fear is strong.
