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You were lying on the ground, writhing in pain.
A large gash was open across your abdomen. You pressed your hand against it as your blood ran down your flank, to little benefit. Your victory against the red lynx came at too high a cost, you thought, as the coldness began to creep up your limbs.
Your mind wandered to scenes of your youth, your father Marik teaching you how to use a bow, your first kill, the summer you spent in cottarship in Galrick's housestead…
