He ain't dead but he's close to it. Don't think I'll kill him yet though. Also he's delusional, no one is actually chasing him
They were still after him. He knew it. He could feel their hot breath on his neck and hear their howls just within hearing, calling from that cursed woodlands. He knew he couldn't stop, or they would catch him. Rip off the rest of his limbs and leave him utterly helpless. He had seen the wild look in their eyes, they were beasts who knew nothing but the hunt. He had been moving nonstop, first running, then limping, then pulling himself along by his front legs. As weariness and bloodloss sunk in, he resorted to practically dragging himself forward with the last reserves of energy he had. His belly scraped the ground as his front dewclaws hooked into the frozen ground beneath the snow. His hind left leg was completely ruined, dried blood caked and clotted into his dusty brown fur, flashes of white bone and tendon serving stark contrast. It had taken him so long to get this far, and the only thing preventing rot was the frigid snow beneath him. But it was a double edged sword as well, seeping out vital body heat.
He wasn't even sure where he was going anymore, completely dazed, but his instincts knew what to do. Pack, it whispered, and pulled him towards the scent of blackberry. He had made it into the blackberry fields, his pale yellow eyes meeting the familiar leaves with a thankful, yet unfocused gaze. One last pull forward, but that was as far as he could get before slumping, his face landing on its side in the cushion of snow. His tongue panted against the snow, wisps of vapor rising from his parted maw. Screw it, they could have him, as long as he could finally rest.