Never had his lungs burned so hot before, and the muscles in his legs sore with all the running. He'd been running for days, hardly slept, hardly ate, and every sound woke him in the darkness. Matada wasn't completely stupid, he slept away from his cook fires, and watching it go out was maddening. But if they caught him, they would string him up. He was no longer their clan-kin. He was their prey.
The cliffs of the Kilanthro Mountains were high and treacherous and the trees in between grew upright on high ground, slopes making steep sweeps and the ground overgrown with moss and root. His claw feet gripped the undergrowth beneath him and he leapt across the gaping ridge between the base of one tree to another and used his tail to balance him, his body curled up, legs forward to reach the other side of it.
Behind him he could hear their movements, his ears down and pressed to the back of his head. They were as large and as powerful as he was, capable of everything he could do. And no matter how far the jump, a simple gap would not keep them away for long.
With a gasp, Matada's claws dug into the hard earth around the base of the tree, it's roots sticking up and out from the ravine wall. His feet met the base of the wall and he scrambled upward and he only briefly saw from the corner of his eye his friend. "Tiall," he breathed, mind flickering back to the day he saved his life. But Tiall's green scales blended better than Matada's indigo, and from the other side of the ravine his bow was taut and the arrow fired.
Matada yanked himself up onto the other side just as the arrow narrowly missed the meat of his tail. And he pounced off yet again. It was his fault, he knew. He didn't know what he'd been expecting when he found himself in his old clan territory. It had been a year since banishment. He'd been stalking an ram when he saw Tiall....and his feathers. Those used to be Matada's feathers. His friend just met his gaze, and didn't hesitate to give the order to give chase. From out of the trees and bushes came a half a dozen Kulshedra hunters, bearing the paint of their tribe.
The fear that jolted through him sent Matada into a frenzy and he knew that even he was outnumbered. So he did the only thing he could do. He ran.
He pushed down the ache that swelled in his belly and made his chest hurt. That wasn't his home any longer. So he kept running and remembered the place where he'd last camped. It was there that a trap had been set. A makeshift net out of a skinned animal hide. It would hold them off, or so was his hope. He leapt over the wire was spread between two trees and he made his way downhill. The sound of rushing water was nearby. Just past that river and he'd be out of their current territory. Chasing him any further would be too great a risk.
Their scent-marks ended here.
Matada lost his footing briefly and gravity soon took him away, rolling down that steep hill, and tumbled down to the river's embankment. His face caked in dirt, his hands sore and raw and the feel of his scales peeling away. He panted and groaned, his head aching in his recover. But there it was...the water's edge.
Slowly he moved and crawled into the water, letting the current take him. With a heavy breath, he let himself be tossed by the water until he found the courage to swim. It would have been easy to simply let himself drown. But that was no way for him to die. Not yet... They would win, boast about Matada the Great Hunter, and how he met his pathetic end. Fuckers. He wasn't about to give them that satisfaction.
He pulled his arms up and pushed toward the other side, swimming full force and crawled until he reached the edge, slumping down into the mud, body cold and shivering. He panted heavily, opening his eyes vaguely and seeing a blurred figure not far from where he laid. And he just watched them, orange eyes glassing over.