No matter where to, you just got to keep moving!
Reading books of thrilling adventures, the mind thirsty of action could think that such a tensed moment unfolded in loudness. But it would be wrong. A hunt was never heard. Not the successful ones, in the very least. No, that game was meant to be played and sorted in a few moments. One could have all the preparation work one wanted, the outcome always depended on a single shot, just a few nonces.
And there it was. The decisive shot.
On the edges of the Keeper's sight, he saw a flash of light. He heard a noise, like powerful claps of thunder. But most importantly he felt. He felt hot. Was it the noise, it's suddenness or the shot itself that made him fall? Did it matter?
Kahn'a roared in pain, he had been shot. It was as if his body stopped answering to his command, or rather, it was answering something else. Something primitive. A wounded beast. His vision blurred with tears and his jaw snapped open to yell in pain. He was falling. During what seemed an eternity, he watched the floor slowly closing in, and there was nothing else. On the floor, there were droplets of a red liquid spread out.
It was his blood. This looks ugly, Kahn'a thought, and it is a leash they can pull on to get to me. He knew it, victory was in his enemy's grasp.
Bullocks to that! He would run. Angling himself to land on his curled back, Kahn'a regained balance though his forces were rapidly escaping his body, and his right leg throbbed with pain. He spared a hasty look at it and winced. On the lower part, there was a red mess with a black hole at its epicenter. Damnit, damnit!
In a miserable attempt of a jog, Kahn'a dragged himself into the corridors of the inner part of Ul'dah. Perhaps there was still a chance. He had enough sense of combat to grab his bow, and shot piercing looks around, desperately looking for his aggressor. The irony brought more tears in his eyes. He had been shot by one of those accursed devices coming from beyond the border. One of those he had to deliver safely. One of those that had been plundered.
In the end, the pain was so sharp that he had to resort to his bow and use it as a crutch, but even then all he could do was stumble a few clumsy steps forward before he finally fell, barely attaining the red carpets of the better part of town. Face down, Kahn'a breathed out, hissing left and right to try and cope with the burning sensation.
He waited for the one to come. He could already hear him. So before he arrived, Kahn'a worked himself on his back, and laid there, hands and legs spread, offering a pitiful sight, but also one of an individual neutralized. He was not maddened like fanatics. He wanted to live.
Reading books of thrilling adventures, the mind thirsty of action could think that such a tensed moment unfolded in loudness. But it would be wrong. A hunt was never heard. Not the successful ones, in the very least. No, that game was meant to be played and sorted in a few moments. One could have all the preparation work one wanted, the outcome always depended on a single shot, just a few nonces.
And there it was. The decisive shot.
On the edges of the Keeper's sight, he saw a flash of light. He heard a noise, like powerful claps of thunder. But most importantly he felt. He felt hot. Was it the noise, it's suddenness or the shot itself that made him fall? Did it matter?
Kahn'a roared in pain, he had been shot. It was as if his body stopped answering to his command, or rather, it was answering something else. Something primitive. A wounded beast. His vision blurred with tears and his jaw snapped open to yell in pain. He was falling. During what seemed an eternity, he watched the floor slowly closing in, and there was nothing else. On the floor, there were droplets of a red liquid spread out.
It was his blood. This looks ugly, Kahn'a thought, and it is a leash they can pull on to get to me. He knew it, victory was in his enemy's grasp.
Bullocks to that! He would run. Angling himself to land on his curled back, Kahn'a regained balance though his forces were rapidly escaping his body, and his right leg throbbed with pain. He spared a hasty look at it and winced. On the lower part, there was a red mess with a black hole at its epicenter. Damnit, damnit!
In a miserable attempt of a jog, Kahn'a dragged himself into the corridors of the inner part of Ul'dah. Perhaps there was still a chance. He had enough sense of combat to grab his bow, and shot piercing looks around, desperately looking for his aggressor. The irony brought more tears in his eyes. He had been shot by one of those accursed devices coming from beyond the border. One of those he had to deliver safely. One of those that had been plundered.
In the end, the pain was so sharp that he had to resort to his bow and use it as a crutch, but even then all he could do was stumble a few clumsy steps forward before he finally fell, barely attaining the red carpets of the better part of town. Face down, Kahn'a breathed out, hissing left and right to try and cope with the burning sensation.
He waited for the one to come. He could already hear him. So before he arrived, Kahn'a worked himself on his back, and laid there, hands and legs spread, offering a pitiful sight, but also one of an individual neutralized. He was not maddened like fanatics. He wanted to live.
