Actaeon ran and ran, his hunting dogs, formerly the loyalist and most trustworthy of allies, hot on his heels. Weaving through the thick forest, his deep breaths hung heavy in the cold air.

Running was getting more and more difficult. His body, just minutes ago the peak of humanity, now took on a shape he was intimately familiar with. Unfortunately for him, it was the wrong kind of familiarity.

He knew how the body of a deer moved, where to strike it and how it reacted to such strikes. What he didn’t know, to his own demise, was how to move such a body. A human mind isn’t suited for four legs. At least, not without time to adapt.

Still, he ran as best as he could. The howls and of his hounds were right behind him, slowly but surely getting closer. And Actaeon? He was slowly getting slower.

As his head, torso, and then limbs gradually transformed into that of his favourite prey, his coordination suffered. Only thanks to his training, thanks to being one of the very best, could he even hold on this long.

But prey is prey, no matter how great of a hunter it was previously.

With a final burst Actaeon’s transformation was complete, his feet and hands turning to hard hooves, and he stumbled. Perhaps it was due to the sudden shift in what he was running on, perhaps there was a hidden root in the way. Perhaps, even, that root wasn’t even so much hidden as magically conjured.

Either way, the former hunter’s end began.

Actaeon, now fully majestic deer, lay sprawled on the ground. Still, he didn’t give up. Surely, if he could just get away and find help, all would be well, he though. But as he attempted to stand once more, his head didn’t budge.

His antlers, a deer’s greatest pride and a hunter’s most coveted treasure, wedged themselves into a tree with no intention of letting go. Struggle as he might, even Actaeon couldn’t pull them out in the time he had.

And the time he had truly wasn’t worth much. With one final jump, the first of his persecutors was upon him.

His legs buckled under the extra weight, and then the canines’ feast began. Poor Actaeon, didn’t even get the chance to fight back.

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The first bite landed on his hind legs. The first hunting dog, more resembling a wolf of old, sank his long and sharp teeth deep into the soft flesh. Crimson blood gushed out, not unlike a fountain in the king’s garden.

Then, came the rip. Shaking and pulling, the dog ripped the chunk of meat out, accompanied by a sickening sound. Like the future getting torn to shreds, the last vestiges of hope extinguished.

With a wet squelch, the wolfish dog swallowed its master’s flesh, its tongue instinctively capturing any stray drops of blood that may have escaped the belly of the beast.

Then, it was the second leg’s turn. With another bite, Actaeon’s mind was once more overwhelmed by the searing pain of getting eaten, devoured, alive.

And then, finally, the rest of the pack arrived. Now, with all 50 of them present, the feast could truly begin.

Not hesitating for even a second, they tore in Actaeon. And he, well, between the cries of pain he tried to call out to his dogs. He tried to alert them, that it was him who they were eating, that it was their master they were killing. But a deer does not speak, and so the meal continued.

First, his legs were devoured, bones included. Now he truly was doomed, no matter what may happen. Even the grandest of miracles couldn’t save him from this.

With Actaeon a sitting duck, the ravenous dogs got to work on the rest of him. And yet, something about it was wrong.

They did not carelessly tear into him; they did not aim for his delicious organs. Instead, as if guided by an invisible hand, they meticulously took bites from the least important areas.

Starting with his hind, they worked their way up. Always leaving the centre untouched, the vital organs undisturbed. And so, Actaeon felt every excruciating second of his torturous demise.

Once all his muscles, his skin, his… less vital... organs were gone, well, that still wasn’t the end.

The involvement of an otherworldly power was now undisputable. Not that Actaeon had the presence of mind to realize that. By now, he wasn’t more than a sack of organs, with the occasional bone still left behind.

However, death still hadn’t come for him. Oh no, the dogs were nowhere near done.

With a precision unbefitting of mere beasts, Actaeon’s hunting hounds began the slow process of chipping away at the bones he had left. Which mainly involved his skull.

Crack after crack, the last of his protection was stripped away from him.

At last, what remained of him really was just a pile of organs. A brain, a heart, and a pair of lungs. Those were the main pieces left behind of one of the greatest hunters to walk this earth.

Actaeon waited, prayed really, for the final bite that would end his life, end his suffering. No such thing came. The dogs left, called back by his friends.

So, he lay there, in a pool of his own blood, just the remains of a once magnificent creature. He couldn’t even be called alive anymore, not really. Despite that, his end was still not in sight. It still isn’t.

Time passed, and he dried out. The dehydrated dust of his flesh became a part of the forest’s dirt, even as it still housed Actaeon and all his pain.