the bard's last note

The darkness was suddenly alive with motion, thunderous steps crossing the beach at a rate that promised a gruesome demise. It was too dark for him to determine who or what was giving chase, but the existence of pursuers was more than enough to overcome the exhaustion that had settled into his marrow. Gripping his bag with all of the strength he could muster, the frail golden male skittered across the hard packed sand. Maybe the gifts would distract them. Maybe that would grant him the extra time that he needed to get away. All manner of possibilities, and not a single certainty among them. There was a chance he could get away, if his legs were longer than the ones giving chase. The looming bulk of the mountain was barely more than a smear of jet black against a coal black sky, blotting out the stars as the only sign of its presence. The half-dead wolf still wasn't used to having only one eye, and his steps were not sure enough.

There was the faint, unmistakable clink of glass against glass, and some spark of hope ignited in the back of his mind. Please, please. Take them. Don't kill me.

The creature giving chase was gaining easily, showing no signs of slowing- and there was some type of bird overhead calling out an alert. Panic gnawed at his chest, making it even harder to breathe. The transition from sand to pebbles on the beach was far more sudden than he'd anticipated, and the slick stones should have been a cue to slow down. Instead, he pushed his starved frame harder across the shifting substrate, the hood of his cloak slipping away from his skull in his haste to create a beacon of golden fur amidst the dark surroundings.

The castaway's shoulder collided with the ground before he even knew he'd tripped, knocking the wind out of him. A tangle of limbs and a ribcage suddenly empty of all air, covered in the dark wool of an oversized cloak. The fabric of his bag had been all that had kept his skull from colliding with the rough ground, though he'd lost his grip on it by the time he'd hit the ground. His throat worked to draw air back into his lungs, releasing a few guttural choking noises before he could issue a weak gasp. It burned all the way down his throat, and seemed to set the rest of his body alight with the pain it had refrained from feeling. A myriad of soon-to-be bruises and scrapes from head to tail, certain to hurt far worse in the morning.

Worse yet, there was some manner of terrible monster standing over him.

"speaking" -- "in another language"