The Mating Run by Leeka

In His Eyes: Executioner

Zeke’s POV

Pain ripples through me, a searing current that lances down my spine as the bat, adorned with rusted nails, connects with a brutal force.

My lips release a wild and unrestrained howl, its echoes resounding through the forest like a mournful cry for the pain pulsating within me. In the air, the mingling scent of blood, both mine and theirs, lingers, intensifying the raw intensity of the brutal dance happening in the moonlit clearing.

I snarl, my teeth exposed in a menacing display, as defiance blazes in my eyes. The bat–wielder stands before me, his face contorted into a twisted grin, savoring the suffering he has unleashed. However, I am not one to back down easily. A surge of wild anger propels me towards him, my unsheathed claws a testament to my transformation into a creature of darkness, instinctively fighting for survival.

The bat descends again, a malevolent arc seeking to crush bone and sinew.

I dodge, a dance of evasion that defies the pain radiating from my back. The forest becomes a shadowy arena, where the clash of wills and weapons echoes through the night.

My growl is guttural, a symphony of defiance that punctuates the darkness.

Momentarily taken aback by my resilience, the bat–wielder tightens his grip on the weapon, preparing for another strike. But I have the advantage of speed. In response, I swiftly counter with a retaliatory strike, my claws slicing through the air. The smell of fear permeates the atmosphere around him, intensifying my determination.

In the midst of our brutal dance, a flash of movement catches my eye. The machete–bearer, silent and stoic, advances with lethal intent. My senses, honed by years of survival, alert me to the impending threat.

With a predator’s instinct, I twist away from the bat–wielder, narrowly avoiding a collision with the looming machete,

The forest watches, its towering trees casting long shadows over the chaotic scene below, Waves of pain shoot through me, a constant reminder of the merciless beating from the bat. Despite everything, the flame inside me continues to rage.

Undeterred by my evasion, the machete–bearer lunges with calculated precision, the gleam of the blade reflecting in their determined eyes. Without thinking, I unleashed a swift kick directly towards his stomach. As the blow lands, the machete–bearer stumbles back, momentarily dazed and struggling to regain their balance. It is a fleeting advantage, a temporary edge that I pursue with unrestrained determination.

I seize the opportunity, swift and decisive. With a lightning–quick motion, I disarm him, wrenching the machete from his grasp. The balance of power shifts, a pendulum swinging in my favor. The machete, now in my hands, becomes an extension of my feral prowess.

The bat–wielder regains his composure, eyes narrowing with a mixture of rage and desperation. He lunges again, but this time, I am ready. The machete meets the bat in a clash of metal and wood, a primal symphony that reverberates through the clearing.

The forest stands silently, bearing witness to our fierce struggle, a battlefield where destiny teeters on the edge. The pungent scent of blood lingers in the air, a stark reminder of the sacrifices necessary for survival. I snarl, a creature of the night, my canines bared as I battle against the encroaching darkness.

With each swing of the bat–wielder, the earth shook beneath me, the force of their attacks becoming increasingly frenetic. With each parry, the piercing sound of claws scraping against wood echoes through the air, adding to the clash of primal forces. With each swing of the machete, I feel its weight and power as it effortlessly cuts through the thick vegetation, creating a symphony of echoes that bounce off the trees.

the kick, reenters the fray. The forest seems to exhale a collective breath, as if anticipating

lone figure against the

the ferocity of our struggle.

attacks.

strike, the bat–wielder’s resolve weakens, his movements becoming sluggish under the weight of my relentless onslaught. With a swift swing, the machete connects, delivering a

and machete colliding in a symphony of chaos. The scent of blood intensifies, a potent cocktail of fear and determination saturating

an otherworldly energy. The machete becomes an extension of my will, a tool of survival wielded against

counter, the clash of claws and machete echoing through the air, sealing his

forest falls into a hushed silence, with only the sound of my labored breaths breaking the stillness. I stand amidst the aftermath, machete in hand, a

scent of blood still hangs heavy in the air, a visceral testament to the price paid for victory. I take a

gleams, its blade marked by the remnants of past conflicts. As I lower it, my fingers loosen their grip, and I feel the tension in my muscles slowly easing away. In the silence that follows, my

unmistakable odor of blood fills the air, beckoning me towards the heart of darkness.

the beginning of the Mating Run, it’s a different kind

words needed; I get it. These are the ones I have to eliminate. It’s a silent pact, an understanding forged in the shadows of

need to

they’re not just random.

lacking in strength and fail to yield the intended outcomes. The Mating Run transforms into a macabre celebration, where the ground becomes stained with blood and the pack erupts in cheers, rejoicing the end of their troubles.

faces, some are complete strangers, but each person has earned their spot in this somber game

just about finding a mate; it’s a calculated purge, a culling of those deemed undesirable. It’s a brutal dance, a macabre waltz where

a narrative of rebellion, defiance, or perhaps just unfortunate circumstance. But in the Alpha’s eyes, they’re all obstacles, challenges that must be eradicated for

revel in this role, but I’ve learned not to question the Alpha’s motives, no matter how unconventional they may be. Survival depends on obedience, an unquestioning

order in

a measure of one’s allegiance to the pack. It’s a challenge that will determine who truly stands by

master puppeteer, the Alpha skillfully tugs the

my hands is more than a compilation of names; it’s a testament to the Alpha’s authority. To question it is to sow seeds of doubt

the Alpha, that

destiny. He dangles the allure of power like a forbidden fruit, and I, entrapped in the

– an irresistible temptation that casts a dark cloud over

uncertain future. The pack, oblivious to the machinations at play, celebrates the Mating Run

that beneath the veneer of camaraderie lies a darker truth – a truth I am forced to confront with every strike of my lethal