"Fuck you, 'Squatch!" you screech, springing from your crouch and wrapping both hands about the spear's hilt. You meant to yank it from the wound and use it against the brute -- because that is the Sasquatch's greatest weakness: stab wounds -- but the spearhead must be barbed, for it will not detach, no matter how hard you yank and twist. The behemoth roars in agony, and seems unable to effectively swing at you for the pain.
"AHH! OH GOD! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!" it screams, flailing.
"I'm gonna pull this thing out and then kill you with it!" you answer back, wedging your feet into the soft earth and jerking with all of your might.
"PLEASE JESUS NO!" the beast is slapping ineffectually at your head and shoulders, but the blows are glancing; far weaker than the giant paws would suggest. But a lucky swat does land square in your eye, forcing you to release your grip. Surprisingly, instead of ripping you in half and wearing your skin like a jaunty scarf -- as you assume is en Sasquatch vogue right now, being the fall season and all -- the brute turns and flees, the shaft of the weapon still firmly engaged in its waist, flapping limply with every lumbering bound.
You must away, before it returns with the deadly 'Squatch Marines as reinforcements. To your left sits an ancient and imposing stronghold, crumbling from disuse. To your right, something metallic gleams deep amidst the verdant forest.