He was out of his body again. Looking down at his true body, he couldn't help but feel divorced from the shell that held his consciousness. He looked so...weak. Starvation drove him from his physical form, trying to find relief in the shedding of the pain and weakness that ate at him every day. Three years he had spent locked in a pit beneath the earth, nothing to sustain him. His wanderings away from his physical form were the beginnings of the madness that would come with time. He tried to fight but each day he thought the hunger could not get worse and each day it did. He would wander about the area where he was held, looking at the dogs that lazed in the sunlight. Guarding him was too easy a job for them.
Today, as he floated up through the net above him, the cursed net that let sunlight stream into his cage, leaving him no small dark corner to hide himself, he found no dogs stretched out above the pit, basking in the warm rays of the sun.
Strange.
He moved silently, unburdened by physical form. The area where he was held was deep into an ancient forest. To anyone else his pit was in an overlooked clearing but he new better, sensing layer after layer of security that held him there. It was unnecessary. He could not have broke out of the first prison once he fell. Far off, at the outer perimeter of the dogs' territory he heard the whisperings of a battle. The howling of the dogs and clanging of metal sounded soft at this distance. He willed his form faster towards it, hope springing in his chest once again. This was the first rescue attempt in years. The mere thought of not having been forgotten was enough to give him energy he had long thought left him.
He flew through the defenses, seeking the source of the commotion. When he passed the first body on the ground his hope soared. The man on the ground was the pack leader. He had been shot through his head, the crumpled body lay in a canine position on the ground but the blood was human. Far behind him his physical body felt the hunger pang though he could not truly smell the sweet sticky fragrance. The temptation was worse than hunger. He kept moving. The bodies began to multiply. Men and women lay across the ground, shot, stabbed, sliced in vital places. None were bitten. There were no marks of his kind on them. What was this battle? A dog whimpered on the ground ahead of him. A deep wound bled freely from it's side. He stopped to watch as the dog's eyes went dark, the whimpering and twitching subsided and the heart he heard within it's chest stopped beating. The body slowly lost it's fur, bones shifting and claws retracting. In death it took it's true form, that of a brown haired woman with thick muscles and long raised scars down her back. He curled his lip in disgust. They should not have been allowed to take human form in death. They died like dogs in the dirt.
He emerged from the tree line into a great clearing. The battle was ending. The dog had driven his would-be savior into open ground where the pack had the upper hand. Before him a women in leather armor was making her last stand. Her weapons had been tossed, taken or left buried in the bodies of her foes. She stood with what appeared to be a long staff with a sharp blade embedded lengthwise along the end. She must have left in the rear as a last resort. There was no way she had carried it into battle. He understood; she had fallen back to her last position. Though she had managed to kill most of the pack there were still enough left to finish her off as they closed ranks around her. He went closer, wishing she weren't going to die.
Her movements were fluid, fast and precise but her breath was slightly ragged, sweat poured down her body and he could hear her heart beat flutter in her chest. She was tiring. She dodged attacks, kicking a beast mid air as it threw itself at her. The circle of wolves drew closer. Two flung themselves at her back. She caught one with her staff, sweeping it against it's skull and sending a man's body flying into the dogs growling at her side. The other tried to grab her arm with it's teeth. It's foaming mouth glanced her arm as her fist made contact with the side of the beast's rib cage, sending the animal flying. The pack snarled. One more attack. If one of them landed a blow, made her stumble, caused a second's opening, the pack would be upon her. She could not hold out much longer. Unseen, he moved through the snarling animals and stood next to her. He wanted to see her living face before they took her. Her leather helmet was tight against her forehead. Light chain mail covered her face. Her wide eyes were the only part exposed. They flashed at her foes. He could see her fear, her calculations and determination.
There were eight of them left. They were too close, she was too far out in the open. She had no where to go. He reached out a ghostly hand, wishing he could feel her warm skin but her head fell away from him. She took her staff in both hands and with surprising grace, bent back, further than nature should have allowed, and swept her staff with it's wicked blade in a long arch, striking glancing blows at the legs of the dogs around her. Using the momentum, she continued the attack to the front, sweeping the blade at maximum length from her body. The wolves leapt from the path of the blade as it mad it's deadly circle, but she managed to strike almost every one of them. For a moment the ring of dogs widened, surprised by this new tactic. Then they dove at her. The attack had set her off balance enough for them to see their opening. Though they were all injured they moved with the taste of victory in their pointed mouths. The woman straightened, but instead of positioning herself to fight them she began to run at the wolves.
Madness
he thought. She could do it. She had come so far. He wanted to reach out, grab her from her suicidal charge. At the last moment, she lowered the end of the staff,
