He runs, leaves fly up in
his wake. The things around
him scurry to be out of
his way.
It pursues, moving slowly
and carefully, tracing
his passage.

He flees, ever faster
he runs. An edge appears
before him. He can go
no further.
It follows him, knowing
full well that he will have
to stop.

There is naught else he
can do. He draws his weapon.
A quick prayer is sent to
Whomever listens.
It laughs, the sound of
crashing thunder. His prayer
is worthless.

He swings, misses. He ducks,
is wounded. He swings again
and is rewarded with a
hit.
It howls. It hurts. He is
more stubborn than it had
expected.

Swing, duck, strike, dodge. He
trades blows with it for what
seems to be forever, or
longer.
It bites, claws, slashes,
giving more than it
takes.

He screams in pain. A
gaping wound opens. Blood
rushes forth. Anger fills
his vision.
It chuckles and move
closer, ready for the
final strike.

He sees only fury. He
lashes out one final
time. Rage guides his
blade.
It is surprised. Could
this really be happening?
Yes.

He stumbles, falls to the
ground. Weakly he rises to
face it; he is ready now
to die.
It does not move, it
makes no sound. It
is dead.

He raises his voice to
the sky in vict'ry. He
shouts a shout of joy.
He won.
It exacts its vengance,
however. He stumbles over
its body.

His wounds are grevious.
He is bleeding heavily.
His strength quickly
fades.
Were it possible, it would
smile. It can't. Both are
dead.