In the Forests of New France
You settle back into the relative comfort of the dried pine needles and old leaves on the forest floor beneath your shelter. The smell of the pine is pleasant, soothing, and you remind yourself that it was nothing but a dream that drew you from sleep. You hear no threatening note in the air, and you are exhausted. You roll onto your side, curling your legs up closer to your chest, letting your eyes drift shut once more.
With sleep, the dream returns. This time you are no longer a man, but a wolf. You bound and leap through the underbrush as one born to it, but the hounds are faster. You can hear them coming, but even more than that you can sense them in a way you cannot quite describe. A heavy weight on your heart, you think, the knowledge that their jaws will very soon close about your throat if you fail to find sanctuary, somewhere.
It is not long before the hounds are upon you. Their snarling jaws and hot breath reawakens your fear, and you snarl back at them as you leap and scramble over the rocks that are becoming increasingly common along your path. The moment's pause that turning your head back toward them cost you gave them their chance. The foremost hound, a skinny but vicious looking thing with a torn ear, seizes your rear leg, and you tumble to the ground.
As you hit the ground, however, you are a man again. The hound releases his grip in surprise, but soon it is not a startled hound but an angry man that towers over your crumpled form, your leg still bleeding where the hound gripped in when you still were as a wolf.
Somewhere, you consciousness tells you that this is an illogical turn, that it must be a dream. But yet something about the pain and blood from your leg seems far too real, and some part of you fears to open your eyes and find out that perhaps part of that nightmare was founded in reality.
With sleep, the dream returns. This time you are no longer a man, but a wolf. You bound and leap through the underbrush as one born to it, but the hounds are faster. You can hear them coming, but even more than that you can sense them in a way you cannot quite describe. A heavy weight on your heart, you think, the knowledge that their jaws will very soon close about your throat if you fail to find sanctuary, somewhere.
It is not long before the hounds are upon you. Their snarling jaws and hot breath reawakens your fear, and you snarl back at them as you leap and scramble over the rocks that are becoming increasingly common along your path. The moment's pause that turning your head back toward them cost you gave them their chance. The foremost hound, a skinny but vicious looking thing with a torn ear, seizes your rear leg, and you tumble to the ground.
As you hit the ground, however, you are a man again. The hound releases his grip in surprise, but soon it is not a startled hound but an angry man that towers over your crumpled form, your leg still bleeding where the hound gripped in when you still were as a wolf.
Somewhere, you consciousness tells you that this is an illogical turn, that it must be a dream. But yet something about the pain and blood from your leg seems far too real, and some part of you fears to open your eyes and find out that perhaps part of that nightmare was founded in reality.