Traveling downhill was generally much easier than traveling uphill, depending on the season and the terrain. I considered this, as well as what I knew of other animals such as myself, animals such as those likely to be following me, and what also they knew of us as a species; and what they knew of me in particular. Of these things, these animals; it could be fairly said that for the most part, they were completely indifferent to our species. It would also be equally fair to say that as for me, such was not my lot; me, they just didn't like. I was known to them because long ago and far away, I had killed one of them; an important one of them, one of them which had worn a golden band; an unnecessary thing that I foolishly claimed for myself, as a trophy.

I lay prone, elbows and knees spread wide in an effort to reduce the silhouette of my form as I took slow small sips of the liquid pooled in the shallow depression of some beast or other's footprint. My hands were spaced about shoulder width, elbows bent, fingers wide spread and tensed for traction, ready to grab grass and haul ass if my rehydration needed to be abandoned quickly. My toes braced against the cool dampness of the lush vegetation which grew as groundcover under the canopy of the trees where I lay. I listened to the darkness, pulling my left leg forward, and bending the knee to position my foot for a powerful thrust if it became necessary to leave the spot immediately.

The liquid was thin and warm but fresh, with no hint of salt or copper; it was water, not blood, and thankfully not urine. The animal that had made these tracks had not been bleeding out from a wound or emptied it's bladder here as it moved along it's course. Evidently, unbeknownst to me, it had rained while I had slept within the cool dry comfort of the cave. I supposed the warmth of the fluid had been imparted to it from the ground, and the residual heat of the day. It wouldn't have mattered had it been warm, salty and astringent, as urine tends to be; or as thick, congealed, and coppery as blood. I was dehydrated, my muscles ached with cramping that made me stiff, and slow. I'd have drank it for the relief and the speed that comes from a free range of motion regardless of its origin, had it been a bladder, a vein, a gutter, or the sky.

My hunters, move fast. I needed to be able to do so as well, even though I knew full well that I had no hope of outpacing one. Many times, in the excitement of their blood lust, or their rage, they became wild eyed and salivated; glistening, blood stained teeth dripped, and snapped viciously, furiously; and indeed, malignantly. I'd seen them run down animals of  the four legged kind, driven mad by fear, in a life or death pursuit; a desperate sprint for life and survival, was also one of blood and meat. it wasn't a choice, there could only be a reaction; and our reactions are very important.

Having taken my fill of the water, I concluded my deliberations by deciding to move uphill; my rationale being that those tasked with conducting a patrol to recover escaped captives would count on the general inclination of humans to take the easiest path. Logically, to me, the more difficult a route I chose, the safer I would be; unless they brought their trackers. I did not know what the trackers were called, only that they were trackers; and that's what I called them. I had never seen anything like them, only other animals that they could be said to resemble; and by the Old Gods I swear, they were as fast, and nimble, as the otter from snout to tail; but shaped as though a lizard of tremendous proportions, in this regard, and the scaley armor of their skin they  almost crocodilian; but six legged.

No creature I have ever encountered before or since, has the tracking ability of these things. A thick, black flickering tongue, forked and hideous, constantly in motion; told them all they needed to know, with extraordinary accuracy about the movements of any given quarry they were assigned. Even through water, they were relentless, tireless, and single minded; whatever the hell they are, they are extremely lethal. Many times I had seen the raw power of these animals within the Colonies; not a few of us have been used to train those chosen for sport hunting. Many of our kind have faced the fanged maws and serrated claws of these things, only to become a meal; a screaming, flailing, helpless treat of blood, and flesh, and bone to be chewed at leisure, by a successful tracker; a skilled hunter, and a cunning opponent.

I decided it would be extremely beneficial for me, if I could find a heap of dung; the fresher, the better; left along its path by whatever animal had made the heavy tracks I drank from. in my way of thinking, stepping in it to coat my feet, wriggling my toes in it to gather it between them, smearing it along my legs, and hips, and arms  and into my hair would allow me to carry and use its scent for deception. Whatever had left the tracks wasn't human, and humans were exactly what the hunters, and their trackers; if they were following; would be searching for. I soon found what I sought and enacted the plan to disguise my scent in an attempt to evade detection to avoid being captured or killed. We, merely another type of animal, were not important to either the hunters, or the trackers. At best, we were merely food to either of them and at times, at worst, a beast of terrible burdens to one of them. I hoped; indeed prayed. to encounter neither of them tonight. 

I pointed my nose uphill and followed it into the looming darkness that surrounded me, moving toward whatever rose above. I had likely chosen well. the climb was difficult; slow was the going, for steep and stony was the way. I reasoned that few who had also escaped, if any others had, would choose a slower and more tedious flight over a more expedient one. I was counting on that even more so than the reeking deception of the scent I now carried upon myself in an effort to turn the hunters, and trackers away from my direction of travel. To my way of thinking, this was a time for painstaking caution within a terrifyingly local proximity of them; not for a careless headlong flight over any meaninglessly measurable distance. They were relentless, time and distance meant nothing to them so long as there was a scent to follow, and time would tell if I had played this gambit correctly, or not.