The Fight
Their eyes met.
The air grew thick. Brannock didn't move. He didn't reach for his axe. He simply looked at the beast, and the beast looked back. There was intelligence there — not human, but old and tired and wary. For several heartbeats neither of them breathed.
Then Loaf charged.
It was not a blind, furious rush. It was deliberate. Powerful. Brannock barely had time to roll aside as the massive shoulder slammed into the tree behind him, splintering wood. He came up swinging his axe in a wide arc, more to keep distance than to kill. The flat of the blade rang against a tusk.
The fight was ugly and exhausting.
Brannock was fast and clever, dodging between trees, using the terrain. But Loaf was a force of nature. Every charge shook the ground. Every snap of those jaws came closer. Brannock landed a few solid hits that drew blood, but the boar kept coming. Pain and adrenaline burned away the last of the ale in his blood.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Brannock slipped on a patch of wet leaves. A massive hoof caught him in the chest and sent him flying. The world spun. He hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of him.
Darkness took him.