He pushes through thick brush and scrub. Panting heavily, the man runs forward. He has been running for so long now that he can barely remember a life doing otherwise. Overhead, the blue sky is obscured by the treetops surrounding him. The tops of the great oak trees block the sun from shining down on him. Around him, he is surrounded by dark, impenetrable shadow. As he runs, he glances behind him. 

Nothing but the dark, shrouded woodland trail that he has been fleeing down. 

His lungs burn as he gasps in short lungfuls of air. And then, sudden pain, shooting up and down his leg. Wincing, the man falls to his knees, sprawling onto the dirt track. Rolling onto his back, he raises his hands up to ward off the attack that he is sure is about to come.

The attack that never does fall.

He is alone. Around him, the woodlands are silent. There is not even the sound of birds chirping to keep him company on his panicked flight. 

Merrill. My name is Merrill.

Closing his eyes, he takes in deep lungfuls of air. His name was Merrill, and for three years now, he had been running for his life. For three years, he had been surviving in this barren wasteland of a life that was once meaningful. Running from his the shadows who wished him dead. Around him, his body ached, sending small needles of pain lancing up and through him. Blood trickled from innumerable cuts and scratches. Grunting, Merrill slowly climbs to his feet, ignoring the burning agony in his left leg. Right now, his need was more immediate than running from the shadowy figures that chased him. Right now, he simply needed to survive.

Merrill had seen terrible, terrible things with his own eyes. Ghostly whispers, and terrible, twisted beings who hunted him for what he knew. Dark shadows who could take form with taloned claw and sharp fang to rend and tear flesh from bone and heart from chest. Limping over, Merrill picked up his oaken shortbow, and shrugged his backpack onto his shoulders. 

He had to survive. 

Turning, he limped onwards, unable to put weight on his wounded leg. 

"I am Merrill and I will live. I am Merrill and I will live. I am Merrill and I will live. I am Merrill and I will live. I am Merrill and I will live."

It became his chorus. His mantra. As he took one pained step after the next, the words became more than a litany to him. They became his only link to reality. As the hours continued to pass, and as Merrill continued to breathe and survive, the chant warded off the terrible, hallucinatory images that threatened to destroy him. Terrible, screaming banshees leapt at him from the shadows, conjured up by his own fractured mind. They looked to devour his heart, destroy his soul.

Finally the vegetation and the foliage began to recede. Finally, was this never-ending nightmare due to end?

Merrill came forth. He came forth into the light of the sun, beating down on him. Sun. Finally, was this terrible nightmare about to end?

The road angled down gently, leading to a collection of simple thatched huts. It was no more than a dwelling, yet to Merrill’s tortured eyes, it was the most beautiful sight imaginable. Limping slowly to the collection of thatched huts, Merrill saw the people going about their daily business, blissfully unaware of the fact that their lives were about to be turned upside down. They turned to regard him with widened eyes.

He held out a shaking hand, and his whispered voice carried forth, "Help......me....."

He could not see who it was he has asked. His grasping hand reached out to them, and then he collapsed, unconscious to the floor.