The early winter was approaching, heralded by evening frosts, by the leaving of birds for southern climes. Predators were emboldened by the prospect of starvation, driving them closer to roads, to farms, lured by the chance of an easy meal. A stray sheep, a town mutt chasing a scent, a child that ventured too far.
A lone argonian by a dying fire.
It came upon him in the dead of night. Gahhaji was ripped from slumber by teeth and claws, pain burning through his shoulder as he caught glimpses of fur and beyond that, starlight above.
Panicked and dazed he lashed out blindly with daggered claws, with each wasted second knowing whatever it was ferried him deeper and deeper into the forest. He knew he didn’t have much time. It had missed his throat by inches, but he knew that as soon as it could it would attempt to reposition its grip.
A closed fist hit its mark and jaws opened long enough for Gahhaji to scramble to his feet. The world righted itself as his vision cleared.
A bear. An old bear, fur clinging to bone and thinned from a poor summer. Gahhaji knew in a moment this was a desperate animal. He knew desperation breeds aggression. This beast would not be swayed by a simple strike to the nose.
He was right. It took a moment, moaning as its senses rightened before it met him with rage and claws and teeth. A cacophony of bellows and roars filled the night and found the pair locked in a fatal match of force.
Bears do not think-they do not calculate their swipes, they do not consider their next action. There is only the charge, their strength, and Gahhaji knew if it pinned him he would not stand back up. But the bear had not realized the size of its prey. The Saxhleel met it pound for pound, with scales as thick as its own grizzled pelt. This would not sway the bruin - Winter was coming. It needed calories, fat; and the argonian before it was many meals worth.
But the bear didn’t expect the teeth that snapped shut on its ear.
A paw slammed against the titan’s bloodied shoulder, buckling him. The pain brought fresh rage, stirred an unwelcome set of instincts. It also tore him loose enough for the bear to flee, moaning and whining into the underbrush.
The argonian gave no chase. He stilled and tracked the crashing as it grew distant. Agony bloomed from seeping wounds, but Gahhaji swallowed the pain of a surely broken collar and kept alert. Moments passed. He did not breath. The night grew still.
Some pregnant minutes later, the nightly chorus resumed. A sigh of relief followed, but his injuries would afford him no rest. Though priding themselves on their natural resilience Argonians were not ones to risk infection, and Gahhaji was no different. He took a moment to get his bearings before limping back to camp.
The fire was all but dead, and what scant supplies he had had been scattered by the bear before it had set upon him. Soft curses and hisses of pain followed every exertion as he bent to gather his items from the dirt. He noted with some sadness his herb pouch was torn beyond repair.
A commotion sounded to his left. He barely had time to turn before the teeth were upon him once more.
It had doubled back around. The old bear had been scared, yes, but hunger and rage were fantastic motivators. It set upon the intruder with renewed vigor and rage, a storm cloaked in fur. Fangs closed on his forearm and the bear kept its pace dragging him haplessly along, root and stone biting his legs and scraping his scales raw.
The instincts roused themselves once more. Savagery flooded the Saxhleel and numbed him to pain, knowing how he must answer. He pushed his arm further into the bears’ mouth, until he felt molars scrape against bone. He kicked and bit, forcing it to slow. it ripped into him with fury, shaking him like a hatchling does a seed doll.
But its neck was exposed, and that was what he was waiting for.
The mouth of an argonian is no feeble thing. Their teeth are sharp and many-rowed, backwards hooked and leave grievous wounds. Gahhaji boasted more than average, and sank all of them into the nape of the old bear.
It immediately bucked - what had happened? The bruin had the upper hand, it tasted blood, its prey was injured and pinned. But now teeth cut through gristle and fat and muscle and it realized with panic that it could not escape. Gahhaji’s free hand had slid around and hooked into the shoulder of the bear, pulling him closer, letting him gnaw deeper.
The bruin stood, dragging the argonian with great effort, before slamming both paws down on its attacker. The wind drove from his lungs and he was sure a rib or two broke, but he only hissed through the blood that filled his mouth and bit deeper.
Again and again it rose and fell to earth, trying in vain to dislodge its foe. But Gahhaji was a beast unto himself. He would not die in this foreign land-he would not meet his end in the gullet of a bear.
It kicked and cried until it could not breathe. It buckled-rump hitting the earth first as it strove to stay standing, Gahhaji hanging from its collar as it wheezed. He held it in a fatal embrace, cradling its head as its fight gave out. Only when the blood trickled to a stop and its labored breathing stilled did he pull away, easing its head to the ground, gaze unseeing.
There was no grace or ceremony in its dying. It was a savage end.
He didn’t stand, not yet; he had won, but at great cost. His injured arm pressed close to his chest, hand limp. With every breath, sharp pain blistered somewhere in his right flank. Inhale, pop. Exhale, pop. The victor merely focused on ignoring the pain and steadying his lungs, grappling to suppress the very instincts that helped him survive; for now they became unruly, the curse aroused by the thick blood that coated his tongue.
"A strong fight," he eventually spoke, swallowing thickly. His curse struggled, but he grounded himself in speaking, running a bloodied hand through the bears’ fur. "You died well, old bear. Go in peace."
From the night above, soft white drifted. Gahhaji craned his neck up with effort, blinking as the snow settled on his snout. One problem ended only for another to present itself. He was not prepared for a frost; the fire was now just smoldering coals, and his tent shredded by the bear.
The bear. He glanced at it-it was a grand old cave bear, and he knew it would not need use of its pelt anymore. With more than a few curses and some struggle he gathered his feet beneath him and set about searching the wreckage for his knife.
An odd way to bring a blessing, he mused, and began humming a tune.
