Alastor

Alastor could still hear the ringing of gunshot in his ears as he hit the ground. The pain of getting hit in the legs by buckshot hurt like no other, to the point of causing him to let out several groans of pain. He could feel the blood beginning to soak into his trousers, as well as the sting of mud and god knows what else against his open wounds. It all happened so quickly, he could barely comprehend what was going on. Around him.

Suddenly, loud barking broke through his disorientation. Hunting dogs. Alastor’s already strained smile broke into a look of sheer panic. Was this some sort of punishment? For all the innocent—and not so innocent—lives he had taken? Perhaps it was. But Alastor refused to allow his fate to be dictated for him. So, he began to crawl—to the best of his abilities.

Alastor’s nails dug into the forest floor as he desperately tried to get away from the distant sounds of the ravenous canines. All he could think about was his burning need to stay alive. This was, after all, quite a pitiful way to die. To be mistaken by some hunter for a white-tail deer and left to bleed out in the dense forest surrounding the Louisiana swampland.

How pathetic.

Eventually, he had grown tired and managed to prop himself up against a nearby bald cypress tree. His breathing was heavy and uneven. For a moment he closed his eyes, wounding if he would ever make it out of this situation alive. But his pondering was cut short when he heard heavy footsteps. Without second thought his eyes shot open to stare directly at whoever had approached.

“Ah, hello there!” His voice came out strained as he desperately tried to appear as though he hadn’t just crawled through muddy underbrush—after being shot in the legs. “Out hunting, I presume?” For a moment his smile faltered as he noticed the hunting dogs standing behind {{user}}, seeming ready to pounce at their master’s command. Then his eyes flickered to the shotgun they held. God, he hoped they weren’t hostile.