Proof of the creature’s dominion became more evident as the pair continued through the reaching tunnels, sloping up more and more. Keter felt a lifting in his guts when he realized his imprisonment, this detainment to the suffocating depths, would soon come to an end. He’d be free once again.

But the many scratches and marks left by the monstrous beast left him feeling awry. Whatever roamed these crypts and hollows had left a lasting impression on him, for the countless pale bones it left behind.

They were all smooth, almost polished. Perfectly cleaned of even the faintest trace of meat. Some small and flimsy, belonging to animals who scuttled in the dark. Others large and thick, lasting remains of creatures that once proudly dwelled the forests and valleys. Both equally powerless before this tomb’s sovereign.

The scraps of bandage wrapped around his feet greatly improved Keter’s comfort. The sharp pieces of flint, laying scattered and scraped off the walls had been cutting into his soles for a time. This adventure would need to end soon. Even if whatever Virrah dressed his wounds with was effective, it would not prevent infection of setting in forever. At a point, one of those wounds would start looking suspiciously red, then oozing puss, then blackening and…

Keter was ripped from his thoughts when he heard a distant voice, echoing through the crumbling tunnels. It was soft and cooing and bright like a thousand tinkling bells. Almost singing, it spoke in a language Keter did not know of, and wisped itself, as if weaving, down the desolate crypt.

But however beautiful it might be, Keter would not be moved. He glanced right, at Virrah, and saw she was looking expectantly at him; as if he would know what to do. She had an odd confidence in his abilities at the strangest of times.

“What was that?” He whispered, and she looked bewildered for a spell, eying him up and down before frowning slightly. A minor show of emotion on her usual blank mask.

“Griefva.” She said lowly, now looking less sure. Keter pointed at the deep-etched wall, horribly abused and torn.

“That?” She nodded, confirming his unsettling prediction. He cursed under his breath, then tried his best to explain to her he wished to circumvent any contact with the creature, using a wide array of gestures and noises. She shook her head, stubbornly, looking him straight in his eyes. Something no one had ever dared before. They were too deep. Too dark. You could lose yourself in his eyes.

“Grievoh!” she hissed at him, then raising her balled fist. “Grievfa.” She opened her other hand to a palm. “Rogh!” and slamming her fist into her palm. Seemed like either the only option was to fight, or she wanted them to. Whatever the truth was, the result stayed the same. If it was her desire, Keter could not refuse her. She could simply abstain from leading him out of the catacomb. Simple as that.

Keter involuntary snarled, brandishing his lined teeth, prompting Virrah to take a small step back. He did not like being under someone’s control, be it in the past or present. Never would they catch him, restrain his will, stop him. Not the tomb. Not Virrah. Not this Grievoh. Nothing and no one.

*

From high gaps in the tunnel’s roof, dim light spilled down together with a hammering of rain. The Prowl’s black feathers, donning the head and wings, were covered by beads of wet, slipping down and tapping on the seeping floor.

Even if the sun was clouded, and its light only reached the crypt through fissures, it was the clearest image Keter had seen in days. The Prowl was talking softly in an eerily human voice to nothing but the rain and the crooked bone it was lapping the marrow from with its long, slithering purple tongue.

Its nest, if that was where it was standing, showed impeccably clean. Every inch was spotless of filth or dirt. The Prowl was a most hygienic beast. Even then, as it was sucking the bone dry, it payed immaculate attention that its beige hide stayed spotless.

Keter saw invisible ripples of magic steam off its skin, forming a mirage of coiling mantra around the monster’s frame. Everything held magic, from the dirt littering the earth, to the trees sprouting from it, to the creatures feeding from them, and the beasts feasting of those.

Some things or creatures had a denser cloud of magic around them, making it difficult to influence the space close to their bodies. Setting a wick aflame was easy, the hairs of a greenskin were harder and other conditions such as air and water made it easier or not.

Keter could tell at a glance that forcing any magic on the Prowl was impossible for him. He was not strong enough. But a beast was still just that; nothing more than an animal, and those could be killed just like anything. All he needed was an opening. All he needed was time.

Shadows swarmed around Keter, more as if they were drawn to the him than anything else. They belonged there, just as he. Still as a stone, Keter allowed the Rain to lash him, slowly washing away the dirt and grime he had covered himself with as improvised camouflage.

Time waded past, calm and steady as always. And Keter made himself part of the rocks around. Like he had in the old days. Wasn’t really that hard at all. It all came back to him as if he had been roaming these tunnels every day for years.

Rain kept pelting, drenching his hair, seeping into his poncho, sodding his dressings then spattered to the earth, drip, drip, drip. Keter sat there, still and silent as the stone from which this crypt was carved.

It could be a terrifying weapon, patience. One of those things only a few men really learn to use. It was a hard thing, to keep your mind on a deadly task while your blood is cold, and danger can still be avoided. Keter found he’d always had the knack for it. Like no other.

So, he crouched there, and let the slow time crawl by. Until the rain was no more than a spit and drizzle, and the moon’s pale sheen peeked between the ceiling’s crevices. Pale enough for Keter to see his work by. The beast’s chest rose and fell at a serene rhythm. Near-silent breathing coming from its vicious beak.

He uncurled his limbs, muscles taught and sore from the time spent idle. He started moving but hesitated. From the folds of his pelt he retrieved two small beads of flatbread and pushed them into his ears. Having one plan sounds nice and dandy, but plans are prone to failure. More so whenever your life dangles from their structure. One plan is the same as having none. A knowing that comes from harsh experience.

The rain was a friend like no other, masking the soft noises his feet made as he sneaked around the Prowl’s giant slumbering frame. The world was muffled for the stuffing in his ears, but it was a thing he had grown most accustomed to in his previous life; stalking the modern battlefield tended to be cruel to the hearing unless properly protected. Even if it did limit his senses.

The Prowl’s head was even bigger once Keter had gotten close. He weighed his shattered blade, musing that the monster could probably swallow him whole if given the chance. Good thing no such thing would happen.

He held the knife point down above the closed eye, gripping the ragged hilt with two hands; white from the cold. His breathing slowly synced with the beast’s, up and down, in and out, until they almost became one.

His sodden body was shivering, but he forced his fist still. Pain was a thing consigned to the mind, nothing more. It would not restrain him. Nothing would.

Keter stabbed the blade into the Prowl’s eye like an icepick and twisted it around. The monster lurched up, backed by a sharp scream that would’ve really put a hurt on the ears if it weren’t for the filling. Before Keter could lash at the creature’s other eye he was swung away by its massive arm.

He bounced and skidded along the tiles. He hacked and coughed, all breath punched from his lungs. His vision swam and it took a moment before he noticed his glinting blade. He sucked in another breath then rolled and sprang up, dashing towards his dropped blade.

But the monster was there first, staring right at him with its one eye and barking wrathfully in vague resembles of human tongue. One of its razor talons swiped at his head, less than a blur in the dark. He ducked to the floor, hearing the air whizz above him, then snatched up his weapon. Rolling aside just in time as another claw grated the floor, sent sparks flying. Brightly glittering in the dim lair.

Seeing an opening, Keter dashed between the Prowl’s legs, jabbing the blade into its crotch. Black ichor sprayed out and doused Keter in pitch. The monster’s enormous wings fanned out, beating against the walls and ceiling, raining down dust and sand.

It quickly turned around, eyes filled with flame. Keter blinked the powder away, staring surprised to find both eyes gazing back. It had healed in moments. The only trace of injurie was the odd grey scar tissue, looking years old. So much for plan Alfa. Just his luck.

The Prowl crouched low, tucking its wings close to itself, nails digging in the stone. Its head followed Keter’s gleaming knife as he held it before him, knowing of the danger it posed. It would be prepared this time. The cut in its skin had already stopped bleeding.

Muscles bulged, tendons coiled, and the Prowl reached Keter in one great spring. He hopped aside, discarding the blade to the floor and swinging the palms of both hands together. The creature’s head was right before him, watching Keter with its huge, beady black eye. Amplified by his magic, the clap of his hands was thunder, shaking the crypt’s very foundations and blasting debris from the savage struggle into the air.

The Prowl recoiled, screaming in dismay as blood shot out its earhole, ruined by the overwhelming noise. It floundered back, stumbling as it lost every sense of balance. Keter had only remembered at the last moment to unclench his teeth, for they would have shattered otherwise. But the Prowl would not remain stunned forever.

Keter turned on his heels and made a mad dash into the tomb’s darkness, trusting solely on his senses to keep him from faltering in the obscure shadows. Barely had he taken two dozen strides, and already he heard the monster’s frenzied hunt, roaring and stomping its way down the tunnels.

Even here, be it the battle or the Prowl, the dust had stirred from its bedding and was floating through the hollows, stinging Keter’s eyes to tears. Perhaps only through luck did he see the large blot of bleached yellow, brimming in the dark.

Keter threw himself into the small, marked crevice, crashing right onto the hidden Virrah. His heart was beating so fast, thumping in his throat and had blood surging through his ears. His hairs stood on end and his fingers were twitching. He was alive. He felt alive. This… This was what he was meant to do.

Keter blew out his breath, and every trace of dust or oxygen fled their small hole. The monster raged outside, almost having reached their hide. There was warmth in him, swelling his muscles, coursing his veins. He needed only take a sliver of it. The spark, he threw into the tunnel filled with bellowing dust.

There was a booming explosion as a cloud of flame obliterated everything like hell’s unrighteous fury. It took everything Keter had to hold back the bellowing heat. He was so close to death, standing mere inches from her longing embrace. It would take but a slip to see them disintegrate into dust.

If Virrah looked at him then, in the fire’s horrible glow, she’d see his face split in half for the mad grin that cleaved his face.