Day-Lynx (EDITING)

Ten Starving Hyenas

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The journey takes longer than Rozell's expectation. Even when his muscles have screeched and paused every so often, the light is still out of reach. Wispy roots clasp Rozell's face and scratch his furred skin, tearing through his healing wounds from the encounter with the hunters. The small hole doesn't allow much air to relieve his breathing, and it becomes harder to advance.

Drained is the best word he can relate to.

The higher the tunnel stretches out, the narrower it becomes. Rozell's heart still prances in his chest whenever a snapping branch or the clink of silver resounds from above. His blurry eyes picture a bloodlust man peeking through the hole, with the snout of his weapon aimed toward Rozell. It adds more fuel to Rozell's limbs, for they zoom forward twice quicker to escape this unfortunate position.

Once Rozell inhales the sulky smell of snow and the stinky dead leaves, he heaves himself out of the hole. A cold mist blocks away from the sun's friendly reaches. Wherever he snaps his neck to, a sea of roots or a pile of brown debris stare at him like enemies lying low. The giant trees, along with the huge shadows stirring awake on the branches, tower over him like thrones to the ruling beasts of the forest.

Ignoring the pricks that stick to his skin and the trickling blood from his wounds, Rozell clambers down the hills and heads to the setting sun. Not even the calming mist can lull him into another nap. But once the shadows on the trees let out a furious roar, Rozell madly dashes out of the territory.

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A silver here, a silver there. A noose on the branch and everywhere.

During his trip back to the cottage, dusk has swept over the land and turns the malformed beast back to its human form. With his sweaty skin blistering red, Rozell treads down the uneven landscape much weaker than his grandpa does. The sight of the blatant traps on the trees and bushes makes his stomach twist even worse.

Are those Oxen and his fellow hunters' doing?

Yet, how can they think so differently from Ren? How could she even save the creature she's supposed to chop into pieces?

Throughout his journey, Rozell gets to pocket some berries and eatable leaves so Grandpa won't scold him with another earful of grumbles.

After all, Rozell should've helped Grandpa fix his broken mirror and the wooden plank. Or he could've tried to fill the empty boxes in Grandpa's storage. But instead, he has to roam around in the form of a hunted beast.

Can I convince Grandpa that hunting for berries in winter has gone harder over the years, with the number of animals growing instead of shrinking?

The hair on his skin prickles up. He inches away from the traps while staying alert for those scattered on the ground. But with an eerie blackness slowly swallowing up the purplish-orange sky, Rozell gets blinder with every count.

After enduring the stings on his body and the tremor in his stomach, the sight of his cozy cottage relieves him. But as he treads closer, his nose crinkles in anxiety at the nine figures loitering around the place as if it's a drinking bar. Grandpa is not among them, and the door is still locked.

What on Borealm is going on?

"Cottage Boy," a cheery voice greets him, followed by friendly pats on his drenched back. The other visitors snap their heads to Rozell, but he quickly avoids them by turning to his guest. "Where have you been all day? Why returning so late?"

Rozell hopes a snowstorm would visit the area soon since he can't hide his jumpiness any longer. He rubs his cold hands quickly, forcing a polite smile. "Out to get these." The berries he had gathered earlier are now crushed in his palm, tainting it with mixed colors. "Er..."