I tear down the path, the rough gravel stingingly cutting through my pads. My heart is pounding in my ears, my legs feel like they're on fire, and heavy rain pelts me like thousands of evil pebbles.

The only things keeping me going are the adrenaline and the large mob chasing me.

I risk a glance back, the villagers held torches, swords, knives, canes and other weapons. The sight sends a fresh wave of fear through me and I stumble slightly. I quickly regain my balance. I can't risk a slip-up.

I jump off the path, darting towards the forest. The damp grass feels like heaven on my split pads. I run on and on, long after the angered shouts fade into nothing.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

I crash through the undergrowth, stumbling. Brambles and thistles catch on my fur, pulling at it painfully.

Slipping against the damp earth, I tumble down a slope. I yelp pitifully before coming to a halt on a riverbank, the freezing water lapping at my already soaked pelt.

I stand on shaky legs, panting from both fear and exertion. I step closer to the river and sink my muzzle into it, lapping greedily as the ice-cold liquid soothes my dry mouth and sore throat.

Inhaling shakily, I scan my surroundings in the dull light of the night. I sigh in relief when I spot a huge willow tree a few feet up the slope.

Demanding my legs not buckle under my weight, I claw my way up the slope, the mud clinging unpleasantly to my underbelly. When I reach the base of the willow, I curl into a ball, whimpering quietly.

So there I lay, in the cold, whimpering. I curl tighter around myself, trying in vain to keep the cold out. At least the tree kept most of the rain off me.

Eventually, I pass out from the exhaustion.