Arran stared at the giant dragon that was fast approaching him, focusing his mind and suppressing the sense of panic that was rising within him. He knew that if he succumbed to fear, he would die — to have any chance of surviving this crisis, he needed his wits.
The creature moved sluggishly due to the poison that still lingered in its veins, but its vast size meant that it crossed half the distance between them in moments. Just a few moments more, and it would reach him.
As he saw the dragon near, Arran felt an overwhelming urge to flee, but he resisted it. As soon as he moved, his Duskcloak would no longer hide him, and there was no way he could outrun the creature when it saw him.
Instead, he steeled his nerves and forced himself to remain motionless. If what he had in mind was to work, he could only move at the very last moment, and not a second earlier.
