No one can fight nature.
A hound born for the chase will never understand why its master beats it for doing the very thing its blood commands. You can shout, curse, drag it by the collar,but the instant its nose catches the scent, it will be gone, bounding after the chicken he sight as if the world itself depended on it.
A rabbt, when shadow falls upon it, cannot be faulted for its panic. Its whole being is stitched around the singular instinct to run.
And these criminals, these burrow-dwellers clinging to the illusion of cunning,are nothing but that: mices jolted from their nest.
They flee.Not in formation, not with even the faintest dream of order. This is no battle. This is not even a rout, which would imply a commander, a standard, a mind behind the movement
Their limbs were scrambling through the narrow gut of the tunnel in a frantic blur as they run everwhere that they felt was safe.
Feel, not think.
