It was written for a contest on the forums a long ways back. The prompt was to write a story detailing how Tralin and Nel first met each other and became friends.

Personally, I think I tried too hard on this one. The parallel imagery in the second and third paragraphs was pulled off reasonably well, but this is an almost perfect example of what can happen if you describe a little bit /too/ much. Mood was good, but I sacrificed tone for it. And there just isn't enough emotion behind it to make that much of an impact. Oh well.

Don't expect anything else up on this site. I've written a couple more AQ-based stories for forum contests, but I'm just not going to bother putting them up here. Nearly all of my writing is on FictionPress, the sister site. R&R would be nice there, considering that this one's old and doesn't really say much about my writing style.

A form crashed through the bushes

A form zipped through the bushes. It was a sleek form, graceful in its leaps and bounds through the forest. All shades of browns blended together into a single blur as the figure arced back and forth between the trees. It danced a delicate, fleeting ballet as it weaved through the woodland.

A form crashed through the underbrush. It was ungainly, obviously not meant for running through the woodland territory. The greens and browns of its scaled skin effectively camouflaged it among the trees and bushes, but this was not a time for stealth. The time for stealth was long past. This was the time for dodging trees. This was the time for chasing. This was act two of the play.

The stag pranced over the foliage, almost frolicking in its desperate attempt at escape. Its ivory antlers were visible for just a moment as it peaked in a leap over a bush, and then joined in the rest of the creamy blur as it dashed away from its assailant.

The Drakel following behind it gasped for air. His side ached from running. An unseen internal fire burned away within his lungs. But that same eternal fire burned within his eyes. He would get this one. It would not get away.

A bird chirped overhead as if in insolent mockery the Drakel's futile endeavors. It then spread its angelic wings and then soared up into the heavens.

The Drakel pulled out his bow. It was already strung and slung over his shoulder. He ran with the weapon in hand. He ran, waiting, waiting for the opportune moment…

It revealed itself. The opportune moment revealed itself as the stag ran into a clearing. This was perfect. There were no trees to interfere with his aim. It was just him and the deer in a wide, open clearing. The stag continued running across the glade. The Drakel grinned a smile of victory. He grinned a smile of sweet, sweet victory.

He readied his bow. Still running, he raised the bow and held it in position. Still panting, he reached behind him to pull an arrow out of his quiver. Still grinning, he steadied it. He would eat well that night. He would eat very, very well.

He fit the arrow in the notch. He pulled back. He felt the strain in his shoulder and in his arm as he pulled the bow backwards. He aimed, and readied…

The deer abruptly turned around. Startled, the Drakel released the bowstring. His aim was thrown askew and the arrow flew in a different direction. The deer turned around and stared him directly in the eye. It was still charging. And this time, not away from the predator.

It ran directly at him, a cornered beast with nothing to lose. Hastily, the Drakel whipped another arrow from his quiver and threw it into position. He pulled back on the bow, hopefully to catch the deer before it came too close.

He pulled back too late. The stag butted him square in the stomach. He flew backwards, the wind knocked out of him. He labored to his feet, his already abused lungs burning with the lack of air. He pulled another arrow out of his quiver, shaking with anticipation.

The bow was damaged. There was a splinter of a crack running down its length. The Drakel cursed but readied the bow anyways. The stag was coming back, ready to finish the job it had started. He was lucky he wasn't gored by one of the antlers; very lucky indeed. That would not be a very pleasant fate.

The stag, in its magnificence, readied to charge. It was no longer a caged animal, but an angel fighting back for the territory that it owned. This stag labored to protect its own Garden of Eden. The hunter was now the hunted. This little kitty had claws.

He pulled back on the bow, muscles straining, the wood of the bow groaning in protest. Then it splintered in his hands. It shattered, pieces flying every which way. He still held the string.

The momentum, the potential stored energy in the bowstring, flew backwards. It was meant to go forward, pour all of its strength into the arrow that would slaughter the stag. But the Forces worked against him as his hand pulled the bow the opposite direction and into his body. An endpiece of the weapon bounced off the grass, literally bouncing from the sheer force it hit the ground with. Another endpiece ricocheted off of his head.

He was dead. He was dead meat for the scavengers to find and devour. The demons would drag his body down to their fiery pits. He could see their fiendish visages at the edges of his vision. He opened his left hand, the remains of his bow falling out of it. He watched them fall, slowly. Time seemed to grind to a halt. There was grit in the great cogs of the clock tower.

The stag ran to him. He watched, dumbfounded, as the stag reared up. It kicked at him with its front hooves, missing him once but then catching him in the shoulder. The force of the blow knocked his shoulder backwards. He felt a sickening crunch as bone gave way. He was knocked upwards, twisting to the side in midair as he flew. He left contact with the ground for what seemed like an eternity. For an eternity, he soared in the air. It took him forever to fly up and fly back down. Time slowed down. The arc reached its zenith and he fell, plunging back down like a fallen angel once more failing to reach its former homeland.

He hit the ground with a solid thud. He felt whiplash as his head was knocked backwards, neck bending in an almost graceful U shape before slamming back down on the ground. His body bounced just slightly and landed again. He lay on his stomach, sprawled on the grass. He felt the deer's footsteps through the ground. It galloped away, its job done.

He felt no pain. The pain was distant, trying to reach him from across an enormous chasm. It stretched across an endless fissure in the ground, trying desperately, in vain, to reach him. The world spiraled out of focus.

He felt like he was flying again. He did not feel the ground beneath him. He did not feel the pain in his left shoulder. Nor did he feel the grass against his soft belly. His shirt was torn by the chase and by the impact and lay in tatters on his torso. It hardly mattered, anyways. He wasn't even aware of it.

He lay on the ground, lamenting his precarious disposition. His own thoughts, too, took a while to reach him. The train of thought had left the station but the rails were damaged.

What had he done to deserve this? he asked himself. Why? First kicked out of society, then lost by his own hunting party, then left to bleed to death in the middle of a forest. No one would see him and he would die another nobody. He was all alone in a deserted landscape.

He was bleeding. He felt like he wasn't him; that he was just another bystander watching himself bleed. He watched as his own lifeblood flowed out of him to stain the grass a deep crimson. With every passing moment, more of his life spilled out in scarlet waterfalls…

He looked up, struggling against the forces of gravity. He bent his long neck in a fruitless search for water. A river. A pond. A lake. But there was nothing in sight.

He desperately wanted to hear the trickle of a woodland creek, so desperately wished to hear the roar of flowing water. Water. Purifying water. The holy panacea, purging evil from the body…

"Somebody help me!" he cried out with the last of his strength. He called out for help. Perhaps a healer. The hunting party that seemingly abandoned him. Anybody. His uplifted head then collapsed and fell back onto the earth. He stared off into space, the bushes nary two yards away from the tip of his nose. He saw white in the fringes of his vision. That white darkened, slowly, becoming black. That black spread inwards, first hesitantly, then with increasing velocity.

The last thing he saw before blacking out entirely was another cream-colored blur. Was it the stag again?

No, it was far too small to be the stag…

He mused in the chilling dark. He lay, alone, in the dark and in the cold. Were his eyes closed? Or…

Was this what death felt like?

He couldn't see a thing. It was so dark. And so cold. He couldn't feel a thing. He was frozen in this infinite darkness.

But suddenly, he felt a warmth flood his body. He felt warmth radiating from an unseen source. He stared off into the darkness, trying to unveil his savior from the shadows. He saw a faint ray, a faint glimmer off in the darkness. He saw a light. A light, brightening in intensity.

And in that light stood his guardian angel. He couldn't see his guardian angel against the now blinding whiteness. But he saw a faint shadow framed by the light. A faint shadow that was but two feet tall…

The Drakel smiled and submitted to the darkness. He gave in and allowed himself to be swallowed by it. He was engulfed by the dark.

But this time, he felt warm.