[P] a winding weaving fate

[Jahin]

Why? He is bewildered. He has realized from the her delicate cloven hoof prints (which quickly fade into nothingness) that she had not been fleeing the storm but walking into it. Jahin has seen his fair share of wandering souls in the desert hopelessly lost to madness and dehydration caused by the endless desert and unmerciful Solterra sun but this is different. She is perfectly lucid—her gaze his bright and clear and mesmerizing. Jahin is completely unnerved. She stares blatantly, almost rudely, her bladed tail swishing back and forth almost in an amused manner like a lioness contemplating if she is hungry or not. Strangest of all, there is no trace of fear in the young unicorn. “Suit yourself,” he says hastily with a shrug, figuring if she wanted to die in a sandstorm, who was he to deny her last wish? His departure is quickly cut off by the creature, of course. They are trapped in the path of the sandstorm. The black cloud at their backs boils and rolls and is ushered on by the hurricane force winds. The terrible keening noise from the wyrm makes him cringe in agony and he is sure his ears must bleeding—the sound is worse that the howling inferno screeching and clawing at his skin. Sand peppers his eyes and he can’t see again. There is no where to go…he knows they must fight the creature. Fight for their lives. Little Red may not value her own life, but Jahin sure as shit did. The creature strikes. He is blinded from the sand and doesn’t see it coming. He is thrown from his hooves and lands on his side, sliding to an abrupt stop. He can’t breathe—his lungs heave and gasp for whatever air may remain in the sand-infested sky. He manages to claw a ragged breath in but is forced to release it with a gasp—he can’t draw a full breath--there is searing pain along his side…ribs, he thinks idly. He staggers to his feet with a grunt, air whistling in his chest, but finding he can draw more breath than before. He doesn’t see Little Red anymore. The wyrm has pursued him again and possesses a speed that is almost unnatural for a thing with no legs. It is drawn by the few scarlet pearls of blood mingling with the sweat beaded on his brow. He dances out of reach, every step sending fire lacing through his lungs, but he manages to evade the next attack. He doesn’t have any hope of defeating the creature…but Little Red…he recalls the swishing cat tail with a glittering blade... He catches a brief glance of her red skin, a burning flame in the rapidly consuming darkness. She is nearby. Is she waiting for the creature to strike him again? Is she planning to let the wyrm take him while she makes her getaway? He wouldn't blame her; after all, he had every intention of leaving her to be devoured by the storm. He knows she won’t hear him over the roar of the storm and the keening wail of the wyrm. Her purple eyes are like glowing jewels—he meets her gaze briefly in a moment of calm and places his life in the hands of a stranger. He braces himself and resists the urge to close his eyes. The creature rears back like a cobra preparing to strike. He waits…waits…waits…his heart pounds and much needed adrenaline rockets through his veins—his pain is masked, it is a dim memory, as vague as a fading dream upon awakening.