The grass lazily bowed as a passing current carried the foreshadowing scent of dust to Joshua’s bleeding nose. The grey clouds overhead smothered the sky, and all the feathered birds had hidden themselves. It was quiet; it was dark; the world was ready for a storm.
A new wave of exhaustion hit the hunter, and the crisscrossed gashes covering his body throbbed under the bandages. His vision blurred, and he seemed to be floating in empty space. His right hand was gone now, and his left—it was so tightly wrapped—would he even be able to draw his sword?
Not his sword, he remembered, not his fight.
A solitary drop of rain fell, splashing against the hunter’s lips. The weakness was passing, and the world retook a solid aspect. The ground, he could feel it under his feet again, and the approaching trees, they seemed to regain their individual natures again compared to the blurry mess they had dissolved into.
He had wandered, he found, from his trail. His eyes locked themselves to the grassy paths ahead of him. There! The footsteps. Jogging a little, he continued his pursuit.
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Tale Told 
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