Tuesday, April 24, 2012


Racing swiftly through the woods, the young elf began to panic. He had been frantically running for nearly two hours from the pack of Boghounds sent after him by the goblin hunting party. Although he was no seer, it did not take him to be one to know his future were he caught. They would rip him to shreds.

It had started with a faraway baying that came to his ears as he sat near the campfire he had just built, intending to rest for the night before continuing east in the morning. At first he thought nothing of it, focusing instead on filling his empty stomach with a watery broth he had made for his dinner. But as the noise from the pack got louder, he began to pay more attention to it. Within the half hour the sounds from the pack had become much more audible, and it became very apparent that they were heading straight in his direction. Without hesitation, the elf grabbed his few belongings and began to run.

Just yesterday he had come across the goblin camp and had counted fourteen of them milling around, speaking to each other in their native tongue. To the elf it sounded like someone with marbles in their mouth trying to swallow a frog. He had snuck away before they had noticed him. Or so he thought. Had he known that these goblins would be joined by others in the company of Boghounds, he might have taken better care of trying to conceal any scent of his passing. Goblins were known to have these canine beasts as companions and he should have been more cautious. Too late to do anything about it now though.

Tiring as he ran, his feet found the roots of the giant oak trees hidden under the light dusting of sparkling snow. It was like old gnarled hands were reaching up grasping for his ankles and tripping him. Steadily he had lost ground to the snarling beasts that pursued him. He grasped the small dagger at his waist, pulling it from it's sheath as the sound of heavy paws hitting the soft snow behind him had come to his ears. The first of the pack was upon him and he could almost feel the heat of the hound's breath upon his back.


The sound filled the air as the elf was whisked high off the ground into the clutches of a net that had been hidden in the snow. Captured by the trap he found himself swinging helplessly, his arms pinned at his sides, the dagger falling from his hand from the force at which he was lifted. To make matters worse the first Boghound was now leaping upwards, it's snapping teeth missing his backside by mere inches. Soon it was joined by another and another.