The wolf ran blindly, not even pausing in her frantic gallop to sniff the air or take a lap of water at one of the stagnant ponds that littered the forest floor. To any who saw her pass, it would have been instantly clear that all was not well, for it is a trait of the lupine to run as a wraith, slipping as easily as liquid mercury through the undergrowth without brushing so much as a twig. This one, however, ran with the atmosphere of one pursued, horror a grotesque mask twisting her jaw into the pained expression of prey that knows it is about to be brought down. Her paws thudded against the earth haphazardly, and her breath rasped in her chest as though she had been running for miles. Fur once kept clean and white was twisted with burrs and darkened almost black beneath a layer of fine powder, but it wasn't her unkempt appearance that set her apart. A tree loomed before her suddenly, and she thrust her forepaws into the dirt, her tail whipping about like a copter blade to right her as she put in a hard turn to the left. Pain flared again in her body and she barked breathlessly, her voice hoarse and choked, while the shower of dust she left behind her settled back to earth as though she had never been. An owl hooted from somewhere above her, but she paid it no heed. It, on the other hand, noticed her passing with a mixture of curiosity and horror, not sure what creature it beheld, for it had never seen another resembling the four-legged creation that sped past its perch at that moment. From his branch, he could see only the right side of the wolf, and it was this image that caused him such concern for, instead of a luxuriously-pelted canine, he spied a ragged dog who had no business being alive.

It was completely naked all over, its pink skin covered in open wounds that festered quietly in the moonlight. Blood and pus intermingled to drip down flanks hollow as drums, and a whip-chord that may have once been a tail trailed out behind, gleaming white in places where the bone showed through the delicately thin skin. Its neck too was in the same state, and only the top of its head seemed to have survived whatever ordeal the creature had been through, for two ears slicked against its skull as it ran. The rest of its face was also badly damaged. It had only a melted mass of flash where once an eye had been and milky canines dripped foam without a covering of lips to keep them contained. A trace of scent reached the bird's weak nostrils and he screeched in alarm, recognizing the smoky after-taste of angry flames, although he soon settled when no further signs bombarded him through the inky darkness of night. It may have occurred to him to pity the creature, if a small mouse had not distracted him at that moment, urging him to abandon his roost and begin his nightly rounds.

Fiam barely heard the quiet whoosh of owl wings overhead, her mind empty of all but the pain and the desire to escape it. She could not remember anything of the previous day, nor did she recognize the lands to which she had instinctively run, but she knew in her heart that something terrible had happened, and nothing would ever be the same for her. The wind picked up and battered her wounded right side, but she did not flinch for it soothed some of the searing pain from her consciousness. At first, adrenaline had been a helpful ally, blocking out all but her energy and the desire to run, but it had long since ebbed from her system, leaving her stumbling with fatigue and yelping at the constant bite that never drew its teeth from her skin.

When she finally burst from the undergrowth on to the shores of the lake, she was hardly concious anymore. She barely felt the delicious sensation of the water lapping at her paws, her belly, her shoulders and then her neck as she immersed herself in the waves before dragging her prone form to lay half in-half out of the refreshing mud, her muzzle resting on caked dirt while her body floated in the shallows. Small fish nibbled daintily at the dead skin that hung from her wounds in tatters, and the icy water purged her of the infection that would otherwise have set in and stolen her breath away. Still though, any who happened upon her would have suspected her dead, unconscious as she was and, even if they recognised the breath bubbling from her nostrils, they would not have given her long to live.

Fiammetta - Female - No Home - No Family - 4YO - 28 inches, 32 pounds