Dank sweat covered him from brow to heel. His chest heaved and his eyes burned; even so, he strained to look into the dark, seemingly silent forest surrounding him.
Nothing.
Surrounded by trees and watched over by the dark sky speckled with stars, he realized he was alone. There was no fire, no victims, no bloodshed. No sound but his own haggard breathing broke the silence of the night. He was alone. Excruciatingly alone.
He looked to his hand; it was his hand: five fingers, pale skin, dirty nails—not the three-taloned, gory, carnivorous claw.
Clenching the hand he had feared to glance upon only moments before, he placed the fist against his forehead and closed his eyes until they strained from pressure. His heart and lungs gradually returned to a natural pace and, slowly, the sweat ceased to flow from his pores.
It had not happened.
Not this time.
Unlike the past, the horrid dream had not turned out to be. The horrid dream had been that and only that; he did not awaken amongst ruin, weapon and armor—neither of which he currently possessed—coated in blood he did not recall spilling, and resting atop the slain.
It had been a trick of his mind.
It had been a…no, he could not bring himself to mutter the word. Even in this context, that word held far too much weight to be used by him. Not this soon. He had only recently fled that accursed, accursed ruin of a castle—and in doing so, fled that armor abhorred and feared by so many.
Including himself.
Remembering little of his escape of the castle, he surmised he fled in a mindless panic before collapsing at the edge of this forest from pain, exhaustion, and terror. Collecting himself and the sole object he possessed—a possession he greatly wished to be without: a large item resembling—despite the unusual shape—a sword covered entirely and tightly with a cloak he would otherwise wear.
Exhausted in a fashion unfathomable by any other human, he hefted himself from the ground and, with his burden upon his back, his feet consciously trudged further into the dark woods.