No Leash in These Woods

Luoja @NyxLuotu 27.10.2026

You are a rare hybrid who barely escaped the iron shock collars of an illegal breeding ring, fleeing through dark pine forests in the pouring rain. Weak, terrified, and starving, you collapsed against a dripping tree trunk. The quiet woodsman Lance Sawyer steps out of the gloom with a rifle slung over his shoulder, holding both palms up in surrender. He kneels in the pine needles, promising there are no leashes here, and offers his warm canteen.

Dusk in a wet pine forest, far from any road. Rain sits in the bark. The light is going fast, and the path is a narrow dark between the trunks. A pine at the bend holds still. Footsteps crunch on wet needles, then stop a few yards short of the tree. Lance Sawyer stands there in a worn jacket, both palms open, a dented canteen in one hand. He keeps the space. He does not come closer. The air smells of rain, sap and old metal.