We come in on a bird's eye view to a rapidly deteriorating scene in the woods. Our hero, clothes tattered, arms bloodied, is racing through the thick underbrush, racing away from someone or something. Our view doesn't incorporate the pursuer, at least not until it is too late for the pursuant, but that will be a few minutes down the line.
The light from the moon glistens on the congealing blood as the hero stumbles briefly on a half decayed log. The thunderous crashing from behind him increases in speed, the being causing it sensing that it's prey is weakening, faltering. Our hero picks himself, or herself, up with practiced ease and resumes flight. The woods are becoming thicker, obscuring more and more our view of the hopeless situation.
Brief glances of bright clothes and shining blood are the only indicators that this person, our hero, is still on the move. How will he or she escape? Will there be a cutaway that reveals the edge of the woods and an escape onto a highway with a sympathetic driver letting them in and revealing the deranged maniac at the edge of the clearing howling in rage at his lost quarry?
Our perspective is shifting slightly. The crashing of trees and brush that indicates pursuit is now merely feet behind our hero. Feet. Now inches. And we still can't see what it is! How frustrating for us. Uh oh, our hero just looked over their shoulder for the briefest of seconds, but what they saw caused them to falter and lo and behold! The clearing! They have stumbled into the clearing! But, we don't see the highway. No highway, just a clearing.
And with the clear view we see that it is a man. Our hero has a face! It is slightly formed of baby pudge and too much fast food. The hair is thinning on the top, hardly hero material. The shredded clothes reveal not a body to make the ancient Greeks proud, but a body that would at least make a Comic Convention audience somewhat ashamed of themselves. He's thin and lacks any form or definition of musculature, is what I'm getting at. And in the few seconds that we have had to take in the scene and our hero's characteristics, his pursuer appears.
Our hero appears to be motionless. Perhaps making a defiant last stand as if to say, "I am NOT afraid anymore! I will NOT run any longer! I WILL fight! I will EMERGE victorious!" Ah, the urine now staining his baggy and slightly unfashionable jeans suggests otherwise. The pursuer, a tall, thickly muscled creature with pale brown skin and a long snout, three eyes situated like a crown near the top of its head, sniffs the air, as if tasting the sudden influx of ammonia. It snorts in derision and casts its steely gaze firmly upon our hero's baby like face.
Things aren't looking good, not one little bit. It takes a tentative step, like all good predators, suddenly wary of its prey's sudden stop, of the possibility of a trap. But no, our hero has no such aces up his sleeves, or lack of sleeves as the situation is.
But alas! Our hero has suddenly pulled what appears to be switchblade from his back pocket! Perhaps the situation is not as dire as was once feared! Can it be? Will he survive this encounter with evolution's most perfect predator? If he does, this coming battle will surely be sung by the bards of WoW as he tells and retells the story on all the lobbies he surely frequents. The beast will be studied by scientists, assuredly for weapons research and other devious......BUT WAIT!
The beast has moved with lightning speed, apparently overcoming its previous suspicion, and swipes with its sharply taloned claws and our hero is without an arm! Armless! With a swift gulp, the creature swallows the arm whole and now it is lifting our hero up with its jaws, lifting him to a sweet embrace of death, where he can finally rest...
Or no, our hero is still struggling against the grip of the jaws of his death. The beast lopes out of the clearing, still holding the struggling man in its teeth. But of course, the mother rarely hunts for her own food, but for the food of her young! Oh, the death of this poor former hero will not be swift unless he can quickly bleed out from his wounds. He will go into shock, and unless the beast nests nearby, he will die before he can become a toy for her savage young. Pray for him, that his death is swift.
Well, clearly that wasn't the hero we were seeking out on this night. Perhaps our real hero is elsewhere. Let's go take another look, shall we?
The light from the moon glistens on the congealing blood as the hero stumbles briefly on a half decayed log. The thunderous crashing from behind him increases in speed, the being causing it sensing that it's prey is weakening, faltering. Our hero picks himself, or herself, up with practiced ease and resumes flight. The woods are becoming thicker, obscuring more and more our view of the hopeless situation.
Brief glances of bright clothes and shining blood are the only indicators that this person, our hero, is still on the move. How will he or she escape? Will there be a cutaway that reveals the edge of the woods and an escape onto a highway with a sympathetic driver letting them in and revealing the deranged maniac at the edge of the clearing howling in rage at his lost quarry?
Our perspective is shifting slightly. The crashing of trees and brush that indicates pursuit is now merely feet behind our hero. Feet. Now inches. And we still can't see what it is! How frustrating for us. Uh oh, our hero just looked over their shoulder for the briefest of seconds, but what they saw caused them to falter and lo and behold! The clearing! They have stumbled into the clearing! But, we don't see the highway. No highway, just a clearing.
And with the clear view we see that it is a man. Our hero has a face! It is slightly formed of baby pudge and too much fast food. The hair is thinning on the top, hardly hero material. The shredded clothes reveal not a body to make the ancient Greeks proud, but a body that would at least make a Comic Convention audience somewhat ashamed of themselves. He's thin and lacks any form or definition of musculature, is what I'm getting at. And in the few seconds that we have had to take in the scene and our hero's characteristics, his pursuer appears.
Our hero appears to be motionless. Perhaps making a defiant last stand as if to say, "I am NOT afraid anymore! I will NOT run any longer! I WILL fight! I will EMERGE victorious!" Ah, the urine now staining his baggy and slightly unfashionable jeans suggests otherwise. The pursuer, a tall, thickly muscled creature with pale brown skin and a long snout, three eyes situated like a crown near the top of its head, sniffs the air, as if tasting the sudden influx of ammonia. It snorts in derision and casts its steely gaze firmly upon our hero's baby like face.
Things aren't looking good, not one little bit. It takes a tentative step, like all good predators, suddenly wary of its prey's sudden stop, of the possibility of a trap. But no, our hero has no such aces up his sleeves, or lack of sleeves as the situation is.
But alas! Our hero has suddenly pulled what appears to be switchblade from his back pocket! Perhaps the situation is not as dire as was once feared! Can it be? Will he survive this encounter with evolution's most perfect predator? If he does, this coming battle will surely be sung by the bards of WoW as he tells and retells the story on all the lobbies he surely frequents. The beast will be studied by scientists, assuredly for weapons research and other devious......BUT WAIT!
The beast has moved with lightning speed, apparently overcoming its previous suspicion, and swipes with its sharply taloned claws and our hero is without an arm! Armless! With a swift gulp, the creature swallows the arm whole and now it is lifting our hero up with its jaws, lifting him to a sweet embrace of death, where he can finally rest...
Or no, our hero is still struggling against the grip of the jaws of his death. The beast lopes out of the clearing, still holding the struggling man in its teeth. But of course, the mother rarely hunts for her own food, but for the food of her young! Oh, the death of this poor former hero will not be swift unless he can quickly bleed out from his wounds. He will go into shock, and unless the beast nests nearby, he will die before he can become a toy for her savage young. Pray for him, that his death is swift.
Well, clearly that wasn't the hero we were seeking out on this night. Perhaps our real hero is elsewhere. Let's go take another look, shall we?
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