He is awakened by a thunderous roar, accompanied by a deep, pulsating pain spreading across his body. He feels terribly nauseated, disoriented, his mind drowning in pain and confusion, so intense and widespread that it’s impossible to make sense of it all. The only thing he can grasp is the loud sound, the chaotic noises, and strange sensations overwhelming his body.
Little by little, as the fog of unconsciousness lifts, his instincts take over, as if an almost automated response to all that is happening, his mind tries to piece together what happened, but the memories offer little help. He recalls climbing to the top of the church’s bell tower, tasked with “feeling” the beams that needed replacing, an odd job for a blind man, but as an assistant carpenter, he had no say in the matter, and It wasn’t really much of a request either, he does as his master commands.
He remembers carefully making his way up the ladder, one hand gripping the rungs, the other tracing along the main column to ensure he didn’t stray too far, then a deafening crash, and then nothing.
Now, as he teeters on the edge of wakefulness, the pain sharpens, a throbbing ache radiates from the back of his head, pulsing so fiercely it feels like it’s pushing against his useless eyes with every beat. His entire body aches, heavy and stiff, and as awareness creeps in, he realizes he can’t move much.
As he leaves the half-dreaming-half-awaken world, agony takes over, each breath dragging needles of fire through his ribs, his skin burns, his muscles scream, and the deep, throbbing wound on his side gives off warmth, soaking into his already damp clothes, he sucks in air through clenched teeth, but it does little to clear his spinning head. Everything is wrong.
His fingers twitch, then scrape against something rough and splintered. Wood. His hand traces over it, following jagged edges slick with his own blood, he tries to shift, but the second he moves, a searing pain lances through his abdomen, forcing a ragged, choking gasp from his throat. Something is pinning him down, no, not just pinning, piercing.
With slow, shaking hands, he explores further, his leather vest stretched unnaturally against his body, the wood has gone through him, stabbing through layers of cloth and flesh before embedding itself into … into what?
It’s uneven, ridged, and hard, but not like wood or rock, his fingertips run along it, tracing a pattern of overlapping, curved plates, each edged with something sharp. It seems like scales, but thick, massive scales, and they are moving.
His breathing turns shallow as panic sets in, he pulls harder, desperate to free himself, but the second he does, his wound screams in protest. The irregular wood embedded in his side doesn’t just hold him, it’s wedged deep, pinned between those shifting scales like a nail driven into flesh, Every tremor, every slight motion, sends a fresh jolt of pain through his body.
The realization sinks in slowly, like cold water creeping up his spine, he is trapped, not beneath rubble, not in broken beams or collapsed scaffolding, he is stuck to something alive, something massive, armored in scales, something that breathes beneath him, and it is moving.
A shudder ripples beneath him, a slow, dragging motion that feels wrong, uneven, labored. The thing he’s pinned to isn’t just shifting idly, it’s struggling. Each movement comes in jerky, unnatural lurches, like something massive dragging itself through unseen ruin. A strange force pulls at his limbs, his weight pressing and then lightening unpredictably, as if the world beneath him is tilting, swaying. His gut clenches with nausea. He doesn’t understand, his mind claws for sense, but nothing makes sense. The sensation is like floating, yet there is nothing gentle about it. The air moves strangely, a sharp, biting wind cutting across his skin, making the dampness of blood and sweat turn ice-cold.
The scales beneath him twitch and shift again, the heaving motions erratic, uneven, like a wounded beast staggering through unseen torment. The entire world beneath his hands shudders, and with each tremor, pain flares in his side, spreading through his ribs like fire licking dry wood. His fingers dig into the ridges of whatever this thing is, gripping tight as his breath comes in short, panicked bursts.
Then, before his mind can even form another desperate thought, the world explodes with sound, a deafening, guttural roar that drowns everything else. It is no mere cry but a harrowing wail of agony, deep and primal, a sound so immense it feels as though it’s shaking the very sky itself. The sheer force of it rattles his bones, reverberating through his skull, making his ears ring with raw, unbearable noise. It is the sound of something vast and ancient, something in pain.
A sudden, violent shift. The whole world tilts, and then, weightlessness. He has no time to understand, no time to brace himself. The sensation is sickening, a gut-wrenching lurch as if the ground itself has been ripped away from beneath him. And then, in an instant, the fall ends.
The impact is devastating. The air is driven from his lungs in a strangled gasp as he collides with the earth, bones snapping like dry twigs beneath the force. His body crumples, his limbs twisting unnaturally as he skids across rough, unyielding ground. Agony erupts everywhere at once, his ribs scream, his legs explode with pain, something in his arm pops with a sickening crack. His face scrapes against dirt and stone, tearing skin raw, leaving trails of blood in his wake. The pain is suffocating, but at least the ground is a familiar feeling.
Behind him, a new horror unfolds, inhuman, tortured sounds fill the air, a cacophony of agony and rage. A monstrous thing writhes and screams, its suffering shaking the very ground beneath him. He doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t want to know. He only knows he has to move.
He drags himself forward, each motion a fresh torment, muscles screaming, bones grinding against one another, sharp and unbearable. But he has no choice. The earth beneath his hands is solid, real, unlike the shifting horror that had held him before. The ground is familiar, something he can trust. He clings to that thought, to that small, pitiful comfort, even as his fingers claw uselessly at dirt and grass, even as the agony in his shattered legs sends fresh waves of nausea rolling through him.
Behind him, the creature howls, a sound so raw, so terrible, that it drowns out everything else. It is a wounded thing, a dying thing, and though he does not know what it is, he knows he cannot be near it when it takes its last breath. He grits his teeth, dragging himself inch by inch, blind and broken, fleeing from a nightmare he cannot see. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t know if anyone will find him.
He just knows he has to keep moving, that he is not ready to die, not yet.
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