The pain had not arrived right away. But the mere shock of being struck had startled Theiryk enough to scream. He had faltered and lost his balance and when Navarre arrived in time to help him, he hadn't the will to stand. He was brimming with a primal fear, the kind that cornered animals felt. Were it not for her voice, he might have panicked and struck out at her. But seeing her gave him a small hope, a candleflame will to live.
Theiryk staggered to his feet, gripping her in desperation for the arrow was deep and he wanted to stand. He forced himself up onto powerful legs. "I can," he hissed, holding back the pain that was not approaching. The arrow was likely laced with something. Rival clans such as these would hold no bar as to the means in which they would protect their territory. But escape was their only option. He nodded to her, but his head was heavy. "They can use the wind too. Counter me."
He kept moving, as more arrows flew in their wake, and he proceeded to leap from the base of a branch, swirling the wind beneath his feet, carrying both he and Navarre to the next one over, even farther away. But the gust wavered, and instead a wall of air slammed hard against the pair, knocking them against the trunk of the tree and staggering Theiryk at the center of the branches.
He blinked, dazed now. And a shadow stood before him, another Wild Elf, painted in shaman's paint, feathers braided into his hair. He took the staff from his hands and slammed it into Theiryk's head, blacking his vision.
