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Ruelash found himself in the Tale more often than not, either on brief forays or on his way to either the snowlands or the jungle. It had quickly become familiar territory to him, even though it was not his natural habitat. It did not have snow-capped peaks and icy, deadly cliffs. It did, however, have the occasional howling storm that threatened to tear flesh from bone and it was a parched land that challenged those who lived there to survive or die.

Most of all, though, it had beasts.

Ruelash loved to hunt and kill predators. There was nothing like fighting a warrior, of course. The intelligence that a fellow earthling brought to bear inflamed Ruelash's bloodlust like nothing else, giving him great delight with every strike and parry. However a predator... everything about them was there to facilitate the kill. They fought with primal instinct and Chi-given might.

Today he was hunting witu, savage beasts of the savannah that everybody wanted gone. No one could fault him for hunting them, could they, and they put up a frosting good fight, all teeth and claw. Plus, they were sometimes pack-beasts, so he would be able to fight several at once. That was, he felt, always fun.

This one, however, appeared to be walking alone. He had caught the tracks a few hours ago, following them on the dusty ground from the watering hole to one of the thickets of trees that stood in the Tale. It didn't seem injured or lagging, which was good. Ruelash loved a sporting fight. Not a fair fight, not at all, but he wanted blood and action. Killing an injured animal would just be mercy.

He could nearly smell it now, thick and musty in the air. Someone had once told him that they mark their territories with smell, and then roll in their own waste to make sure others knew they were there. Someone had told him that was wrong, and that the smell came from their hides and that they used that smell for marking. Someone else had told him that they actually don't smell that bad unless they are unmated. Ruelash didn't care. He could see it now, wiry and long-snouted, pacing the ground before him.

Ruelash couldn't restrain himself – he attacked, swords out and blazing in the afternoon sun and cutting into the surprised witu. It quickly recovered, biting at him with sharp snaps of its jaw. Ruelash dodged away and sliced at the beast again, one of his usual dodge-and-slash maneuvers, the sort that had saved him before. He missed, and the witu struck out with its claws, tearing through the flesh of his thigh.

There was pain. Blood flowed warmly from the wound. But Ruelash barely felt it as they began to circle each other. Both were bleeding. Both were ready to fight. Ruelash was ecstatic – this was what he'd wanted.

He surged at the witu, slicing it over the eye even as it barreled into him. It was a dense animal, heavy enough to force him to the ground. Ruelash shoved at it, pushing away its snapping maw and deflecting its rending claws. Finally, he pushed it off of him, kicked it in the gut, and regained his footing.

There it was, in that moment, the perfect opening. He met its fierce eyes and, in that moment, he knew that he was looking at a kindred spirit.

That thought filled him with delight.

Ruelash attacked with a wild grin, tearing into the witu in a blur of ferocity and fur and blood. For a few moments, all he knew was motion and warmth and the thrashing of bodies. Blade and tooth and claw, muscle and ground. Finally, he staggered to his feet, panting and sweating from exertion above the body of the witu, the grin still on his face.

That had been perfect.

A crunching sound from behind him was his only warning before something rammed into him – another witu! “Augh!” he snarled, as one of his blades went sailing and pain stabbed through his arm. He turned and blocked with it, wincing as the new witu clamped down on it with its jaws. He stabbed out with his sword, blade meeting thick skin and, changing tactics, he bashed at the animal with the pommel of his sword and flung it free. He glared at the witu, yellow eyes blazing. Another fight? Would Chi gift him that?

The creature seemed to pause and assess, and Ruelash inched back towards where his blade had fallen. In a moment, he had it back in his injured arm, weakened but ready to fight more – always ready. The witu snarled... and then, suddenly, turned away and disappeared into the swirling snow.

“Huh?” Ruelash squinted, confused. Where had it gone? He stood there, waiting for it to ambush him again, but after a while nothing happened and he grew impatient. And tired. His arm was becoming numb and red clumps of sand were forming all around him. He decided to take the dead witu and bring it to his temporary campsite for now. He needed to take care of his arm.