(B) When her father took her out into the woods or fishing, he would point out to her all the things in nature. How death was a natural part of life to be accepted, not feared. She would watch as small predators like spiders or foxes caught their prey. She watched as the prey bucked and kicked, fighting to live. And she bore witness to the very moment the prey accepted the inevitable, implacable fate. They would go still even as the predator began to devour them while they were still alive. "You see?" her father would say. Cold crept up her body "Everything has its time" It was getting harder to move. "It's easier to accept than...to...
FIGHT!
Her father's smiling, beatific expression dissolved into a ghoulish parody of the man that raised her, jaws agape and scant inches from tearing into her calf as though it were a turkey leg. A bite would mean her death, and from deep within her welled a will to live that was stronger even then her fear. Screaming all the while, she drew the knife her father had given her and, twisting her body, drove it into his flesh just behind his chin, pinning the his jaws together and buying her time. She pulled her way towards the door to the cottage, dragging her body through the blood. Her father struggled, seemingly confused, but did not release her leg from his death grip. His cold hands, unearthly cold, gripped down her. She heard and felt something snap, shooting pain through her such as she had never felt. She writhed wildly, every movement bringing her more pain, she kept screaming. Her voice rising an octave when her knife clamored to the floor and he dragged her toward him again, twisting her on her back.
She couldn't crawl, her knife was gone, the cold was spreading through her. But one last time, she willed herself to struggle, to live. She kicked with her good leg, putting all her strength behind it as her heal crunched into her father's nose, shattering the bone. He didn't seem to notice, but she knew that wouldn't stop him. Instead, she pushed, using her positioning to propel herself towards the door, towards the light, again.
And that's when she saw her.
A woman in leather armor with a lit torch in one hand and strange curved knife in the other, hurled herself into the cottage. Launching herself airborne over the struggling girl, a mane of blonde hair whipping behind her, as she smashed bodily into the ghastly creature. It released its grip on the girl, bowled over by the force of this new attacker. The woman, garbed like an adventurer from the stories, straddled the creature and stabbed the torch down into its open mouth. Skin sizzled and the creature emitted an unearthly sound as she took her heavy knife and hacked at the neck until the head separated from the body. It went limp.
Moments later, the little college was filled with soldiers, men and women all wearing identical armor and clearly deferring to her. They seemed agitated. "It was just a ghoul," she said, as though that explained everything and would calm them. "And a new one at that. Nothing to worry about." She looked around the cottage, briefly taking in her surroundings, blue eyes narrowing at the bloodied iron nails on the door, then focused on the little girl who gone stock still.
Does she A) Remain paralyzed and say nothing, B) Thank this heroine, C) Ask for answers, D) Run to the safety of the woods?
