Tales from HELLBOWNED

By the time the forest took him, the fight was already gone.

The sounds of it didn’t follow. No shouting. No impact. No fire or steel. Just silence swallowing everything behind him as he tore deeper into the trees.

The beast didn’t look back.

It couldn’t.

Its body drove forward on instinct alone, crashing through brush and low branches, forcing a path where there wasn’t one. Wood snapped under its weight. Limbs scraped and broke across its back and sides, some bending, others splintering outright as it pushed through without slowing.

The wound in its neck poured steadily.

Blood ran thick down its shoulder and chest, soaking into its fur before dripping free in heavy drops. Each stride flung more of it loose, scattering it across leaves, bark, and dirt. The kukri remained buried where it struck, lodged deep along the side of its neck, the hilt slick and dark from the blood that kept coming.

It didn’t reach for it.

Didn’t try to remove it.

Didn’t even turn its head toward it.

Pain existed.

It just didn’t matter.

The forest shifted around him as he went deeper. The outer edge gave way to heavier growth, tighter spacing between the trees, thicker brush crowding the ground. The last of the evening light filtered down in broken patches, already fading, leaving more shadow than clarity with every step.

The ground turned uneven.

Roots pushed up through the dirt, twisting under fallen leaves. Loose soil gave way in places, small dips and rises hidden beneath the surface. The beast adjusted without thinking. Its footing corrected instantly when it slipped, its body shifting to compensate before the misstep could slow it.

Every movement was clean.

Every motion controlled by something that didn’t hesitate.

It wasn’t running from something it could name.

There was no image in its head. No clear threat behind it. No voice telling it what chased it or why it needed to escape.

It was just movement.

Forward.

Away.

Its breathing came heavy and uneven, low and rough with each exhale. The sound of it mixed with the constant impact of its strides, a steady rhythm of force against the forest floor. Heat rolled off its body despite the cooling air, steam rising faintly from its fur as dusk settled in.

The scent of blood filled everything.

Sharp. Thick. Fresh.

Its blood.

Too much of it.

The smell clung to the back of its throat, mixed with something deeper underneath it. Something that didn’t belong to the man it used to be. Something that didn’t question the wound or the loss or the distance already covered.

That part didn’t care how far it had gone.

Only that it kept going.

Faster.

Deeper.

The trees tightened around him as the forest thickened, closing off what little light remained. Shadows stretched and merged until the ground ahead blurred into darkness, shapes barely forming before disappearing again.

Still, the beast didn’t slow.

It kept moving.

Past fallen trunks.

Through narrow gaps between trees that scraped along its sides.

Over uneven ground that would have broken something slower.

It didn’t stop to listen.

Didn’t stop to check.

Didn’t stop at all.

Because stopping meant something it didn’t allow.

So it ran.

Deeper into the woods.

Until there was nothing left behind it but silence…

…and the trail of blood it couldn’t stop leaving.

The pace didn’t hold.

At first it was small.

A slight hitch in his stride. A step that landed harder than it should have. The rhythm that had carried him through the forest began to break, just enough to feel it, not enough to stop.

He pushed through it.

The beast didn’t recognize weakness. It only recognized movement, and it forced the body to keep going even as something underneath it started to give.

Blood loss caught up fast.

Each step drove the blade deeper against muscle that was already torn open. The wound widened with the motion, not healing, not slowing, just breaking further with every impact. Blood poured heavier now, no longer just trailing, but dropping in thick, uneven streams that soaked into the ground behind him.

His breathing changed.

Still heavy, still rough, but less controlled. It dragged now. Each inhale took longer. Each exhale came sharper, like the air wasn’t enough to keep up with what the body needed.

The forest didn’t change.

It stayed dense. Stayed uneven. Roots still twisted beneath his footing. Fallen branches still blocked his path.

But the way he moved through it did.

A misstep lingered half a second too long before correction.

A landing dipped lower than it should have.

The clean precision started to slip.

The beast forced it forward anyway.

Another stretch of ground.

Another push deeper.

Then the first real stumble hit.

His front paw landed wrong on uneven dirt, sliding just enough to throw off the next step. His body shifted to recover, but the timing was off. The adjustment came late. His shoulder clipped a tree hard enough to twist his frame sideways.

He didn’t stop.

He pushed off of it and kept going.

But something in the motion wasn’t right anymore.

Strength bled out with the blood.

The drive was still there, still pushing, still demanding forward movement, but the body wasn’t keeping up with it.

The trees began to thin ahead.

The ground sloped slightly downward, the forest opening just enough to break the tight wall of trunks. The sound came first.

Water.

Faint at first, then clearer with each step.

The beast angled toward it without thinking.

Lower ground. Open space.

Instinct chose it.

He forced himself forward, legs driving through the last stretch of uneven terrain, breaking through brush that snapped against him as he passed. The scent of water cut through everything else, clean and sharp against the heavy smell of blood.

Then the ground gave way beneath him.

Not a fall.

Not all at once.

His stride shortened. His next step didn’t fully land. The one after that barely pushed him forward at all.

The strength was gone.

His body tried to keep moving.

The beast pushed.

But there was nothing left to give.

His legs buckled.

He hit the ground hard near the edge of the riverbank, the impact sending a dull shock through what strength remained. Dirt and loose stone shifted beneath him as his body slid slightly down the slope, stopping just short of the water.

For a moment, he tried to rise.

Muscle tensed. Limbs moved.

Nothing followed.

The command was there.

The response wasn’t.

Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the ground, dark and heavy. It spread quickly, soaking through dirt and leaf, mixing with the damp edge of the riverbank.

His breathing dragged, uneven and strained, each inhale shallow, each exhale rough and low.

The beast was still there.

Still pushing.

Still trying to force the body back up.

But the body didn’t move.

It stayed where it fell.

Heavy.

Fading.

As the sound of the river filled the space around him… and everything else began to slip.

The push didn’t last.

The force that had driven him through the forest, that constant pressure beneath everything, began to fade once the body stopped moving. It didn’t vanish all at once. It pulled back slowly, like something losing its grip.

The tension in his muscles eased.

The weight of the form started to break.

What had held together through instinct and motion no longer had anything to sustain it.

The change began there.

Subtle at first.

His breathing shifted, the deep, heavy rhythm of the beast thinning into something weaker, uneven. His chest rose and fell with less force, each breath dragging instead of driving.

The structure of his body followed.

Muscle tightened, then began to pull inward. The bulk that had carried him through the forest started to recede, not collapsing, but shrinking back into something smaller. Bones shifted under the skin, joints realigning, the frame adjusting piece by piece.

Fur didn’t fall away all at once.

It receded.

Dark strands pulling back into skin, thinning until there was nothing left but blood and dirt smeared across what remained. The shape of the wolf gave way to something human again, the outline changing as the body lost its size, its reach, its strength.

By the time the shift finished, there was nothing left of the beast.

Riley lay where he had fallen.

Naked.

Broken.

The kukri was still lodged deep in the side of his neck.

For a moment, nothing changed.

Then the steel shifted.

Not from movement.

From release.

The tension holding it in place gave way, and the blade slipped free from the torn muscle, sliding out slowly before dropping the rest of the way to the ground beside him with a dull, heavy thud.

Fresh blood followed it.

It spilled from the wound in a thick rush, running down his neck and across his shoulder, soaking into the dirt beneath him.

Then it slowed.

Not all at once.

Gradually.

The torn flesh along the wound began to pull inward, the edges tightening, drawing closer together as if something beneath the surface was forcing it to close. The bleeding eased with it, heavy flow turning to a steady run, then to a slower seep.

Muscle knit.

Skin followed.

The damage didn’t vanish instantly. It worked its way back, piece by piece, the open wound sealing over itself until only a dark, wet line remained where the blade had been.

His breathing stayed shallow.

Uneven.

Alive, but barely.

The forest didn’t react.

No movement. No sound beyond the steady flow of water nearby and the faint rustle of leaves shifting in the cooling air. The river carried on beside him, indifferent, its current sliding past without pause.

The last of the light drained from the sky.

What little remained filtered weakly through the trees, fading by the second as night took hold. Shadows stretched across the ground, swallowing the space around him until the shape of his body blended into the dark earth and scattered leaves.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t wake.

Didn’t react.

He just lay there.

Still.

As the final trace of daylight disappeared… and the forest settled into night around him.