(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

Unfortunately, I got exactly what I wished for.
Its nostrils flared, sucking in the dry desert air and devouring the scent of
battle, tasting the smell of its prey. Then it looked to me with those feral
eyes, burning with an cruel and alien intelligence.
I licked my lips, and spun around on my feet, breaking into a run as it
barreled past Dak'kon. The gith blinked in confusion, Annah picked herself
up and cursing up a storm after being thrown off.
And I ran.
I turned around periodically, a jet of force flaring from my hands each time.
In one breath I murmured a prayer of thanks to the spellweaver who
designed the Force Missiles to seek out its targets, precluding the need to
aim. In the next breath I cursed the creature's magic-resistant hide.
We made a ridiculous train with me dashing ahead in a panic, leaping over
rubble and dodging around broken pillars and leftover masonry. The demon
lumbered in pursuit, smashing through any obstacle in front of it. The others
trailed behind, ducking past rocks and splintered beams hurled by the
fiend's fury. Adrenaline and regeneration gave speed to my limbs. Each
twisted ankle popped back into place with newly-growing sinew. Each
fractured tibia or bruised shin mended even as I limped along, leg flopping
to one side.
It's an ancient instinct, the chase. We see it between wolves and deer, bears
and men, even with children at play. Once something runs, something
sparks in the back of the primal consciousness. The urge to chase rolls
forward, building momentum with each step, until you've got something
barreling towards you in a mindless game of catch.
Until you face it.
I turned around, my lungs searing with each breath. My vision swam, but I
could see the heavy bruises and sheared skin left by the missiles I had slung
over my shoulder. I kept the mantra in mind: Face your enemy, and it will
stop. Stare down your aggressor, and it will give pause. Doesn't work with
fiends, though.
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