Over a year ago I began a story. Here’s a continuation:
Gohram spied a fallen tree a bit further down the path. Holding his axe at the ready and looking around once more in fear, he approached. The tree lay at the foot of a tall (tropical tree), which blocked much of the moonlight. “The quicker I start, the quicker I’m done,” he reasoned to himself as he swung the axe. The head sank heavily into the dead wood. As the sound of the chop faded away, Gohram heard a hiss from the tree above him. Pupils dilated as he searched the tall tree in the dark, he saw a shape falling out of the lower braches. He tried to pull the axe out of the dead tree before the shape hit, but he was not fast enough. The body that hit him was heavy, knocking the wind full out of him as he landed on the ground under it. Gohram’s head hit a rock, and he mercifully lost consciousness, leaving behind the realization of his worst fear.
Shallya pulled the limp body into the cover of thick underbrush. She crept around the marks left in the soil to sniff at the rock that had cracked the back of the man’s head. Blood, warm and thick, trailed down the sides and into the ground. It smelled sick, as if the fallen man had some kind of slow, wasting disease. What was a sick man doing in a company of soldiers in the forest? Or, perhaps, was he sick because of his recent foray? More questioned joined the others already imprinted in her mind. More questions and no answers. She returned to drag the body into the large roots at the foot of the tree, and then climbed back up onto her perch.