Her legs sang with sharp pains with each thunderous hoofbeat, the sharp clack of stone, the squelch of marsh giving way. At her heels howled a pack that would surely consume her to the scale-plate, to the bone, if she stopped.
So she didn't.
She was young, her scales barely hardened and her legs still unsteady from step to step. There were already lines of red on her flanks, and the wounds ached, begged her to stop, to lie down and coat them in mud. The panting grew louder. Another snap, up near her scale-plate. A new blossom of pain, and the nameless lamb turned away, tore herself aside. Threw herself into a river, dark eyes wide as she crossed neck-deep. Deep gulps of air, and the mangrove thickened, closed around her.
Something ahead moved, grunting. Huffing as the mass rose, it fixed the little lamb in its pitch eyes, and stepped from the shade of the roots quietly. An ancient-looking boar of a similar coat color, his nostrils flaring. The wolves circled up, closing the boar and lamb in. He grunted, and then turned his head slowly about until his eyes landed back on the lamb. He stepped up, and dropped his head, flashing wide tusks.
No more running.
All that was left was simply to
Fight.