Day-Lynx (EDITING)

Four Skilled Hunters

❄️

Borealm Woods must be cursed today.

The snowflakes attack Rozell's face like an army of blades as he hurls against them. Even when Rozell ducks on the ground and cowers behind the tight line of trees, he must always step on the wrong spot. The snow might be too cold. Or there are too many leaves there. And sometimes the bark of the trees he hides behind is too chipped, not blending well with the color of his fur.

He might be the one being cursed today. The hunters had never found him right in the cottage before; what will they tell Grandpa later?

"Shoot it! Don't let it get away!" Mr. Clam bellows louder than the breeze.

A sharp arrow almost slices Rozell's leg as he dodges to his left. He climbs to one of the white birch trees, cringing at the rough bark's scratches. Another arrow nearly misses his tail, forcing him to climb faster. His paws almost slip down the snowed bark, but he reaches out to the nearest branch and crawls onto it quickly, treading lightly so it won't snap under his weight.

The birds skitter off to the air as the Day-Lynx's distressed howl also includes the chirps of their dead friends. A few squirrels on the twigs rush back into their holes as the malformed beast imitates their buried relatives.

The Day-Lynx doesn't stop growling, even when his throat already craves cold water and his ears flinch at the echoes that haunt him.

They should've left me alone already; I don't want to kill anyone.

He curls his claws at one of the branches as he gathers his breath.

The hunters are still below, loading their long-barreled weapons. One of them grabs a handful of arrows from his sack, clumsily fitting it into his crossbow. His eyes scramble around for the sight of the Day-Lynx. When they spot him, the courage within melts into fear. His teeth chatter like clashing ice cubes before he grits them together.

Rozell breaks into another dash, jumping from one tree to its neighbor. The arrows sneak through the leaves like flying snakes. The dead leaves stick to his skin like a second fur, and his claws beg to scratch the itchy parts.

"There! Don't lose it!" The smoking hunter fires his weapon to the upper parts of the trees, turning the air hotter. Hundreds of critters flee the immediate war zone.

The continuous sound rings like death in Rozell's ears. He almost loses grip on another branch as his legs shake like those intimidated animals. A burning ache spreads through him, stinging his sweaty paws and nose.

It's no longer winter for the Day-Lynx, but a deadly summer. Will his blood feel as hot as his body if he ever gets shot?

The foul-mouthed hunter fires close to him, hitting the branch he's on. "Cursed son of a cow. I missed it again!"

When Rozell jumps into a few more trees, he spots a cliff at the edge of the forest. This must be the one nearest to his cottage. The cliff has a few vines tangled to the roots from the upper ground, serving as a vertical path for a huge, hidden hole on the wall. It's where he usually slips into whenever he doesn't feel like staying in. Sometimes even in a situation like this.

But if the Day-Lynx often dives into the cliff head-first and always comes back alive, where can it be hiding all this time?

No. They might find my secret place.

The hunters haven't shown signs of giving up, shooting the branch or leaves like mad tribesmen. An arrow will always strike the place he's about to land on, and he always growls whenever he has to retreat or brake to search for another branch.