(( This takes place five years in the past, both Griffin and Eli are human in this. Warning for future gore! ))
A mere three days had passed since their escape. But to Griffin, it felt like weeks upon weeks. Heavy fog surrounded him, dulling his senses and sharpening his tension. The only thing he could clearly see was his own shoulders as he looked over them with wide eyes, turning this way and that at every smallest possible sound. Even his own footsteps left him flinching.
A small twig snapped under him and he jolted, a jagged blue ritual dagger raised up to shoulder-height in defence against whatever had made the sound. When it dawned on him that it was his own boot that had been the cause, he reluctantly lowered the dagger. He refused to stop holding his breath.
That was, however, until something behind him shifted through the ferns. Whipping around, Griffin hoisted the dagger up and prepared to stab whatever it was until it stopped moving. But he paused long enough to make out the figure's shape before rendering it a bleeding pincushion. "Gods, don't sneak up on me like that," he hissed, slouching with a heavy sigh. "I just about put five holes into your face alone, pal."