Re: log: grant/matt, the woods Owen. The word ricocheted meaninglessly around the corners of his mind, but something shook loose. The man speaking targetmissionGrant, Grant Stevenson, a name he knew without knowing, a person (friend?) and ally, not the enemy.
Those thoughts ran through as he was turning, pulling a knife from his waist and throwing it. His aim was loose, though, toward his shoulder, a mile wide, so much room to miss as automatic motion carried the knife out of his hands.
The itch scratched, the compulsion satisfied, resolve broke into white hot panic that sank in deeply, and he broke away. He sprinted for the hollow over the edge of the hill, and he knew ever corner of this place, every dip in the landscape, every hidden entry to every cave. He couldn't move faster than Grant, but no one was better at the art of disappearing. He was moving through trees, intermittent slivers of a figure, and then gone.