The Hunter's Song

3: Black Glade (Mourning Crow)

Massive black waves rippled beneath the fungus-shrouded ground. Then they congealed and slosh up into a towering cluster of writhing arms, all flowering out from the central church steeple.

The black-scaled lizardman skittered through the spindly snarl like an irritable tarantula.

He was surprisingly agile, despite his hulking build. It was nice he finally stopped trying to hide from me. His black-on-black scaled-skin was vastly more appealing than the sweaty, frail pelts that humans wore.

Now, now, don't get attached. Let him be useful and soften up the outer layers. He'll go out fighting the way he wants to.

Although, generally, it turned out worse when the newbies survived.

I swung with my chain sickle around the thrashing arms to the central tower.

This Graven was an especially goopy sort.

I'd encountered blades, mucus, metal, ash, and crystal-based. All different sizes and gradients of madness, but the extremely toxic ones, like this gelatinous lump, were the gluttons who loved exhausting their food source and almost always wound up forgotten and allowed to fester.

Why do they always have to be soo weird? And how is this guy even handling all of this? Most people never survive to this point. The average schlub freaks out and runs away screaming like a coward right about now.

Not everyone had the balls to walk into a Graven lair and lay it all on the line.

An explosion startled me from behind. It was the hissing lizardman punching explosive charges into the base of the giant arms.

Well done! Here's a fellow who listens and comes prepared!

However, it begged the question, what were his intentions for me if I hadn't introduced myself after killing the bear?

"Ha!" I couldn't help but laugh out loud.

More explosions followed and the outer layer of black arms was taking a severe beating, freeing me up to hack away their numbers from the top down.

Same as the arms in the forest, we only needed to severe the pressure at the base of the central artery. Him with his bombs and me with my trusty chain sickle piercing, strangling, and slicing away.

The mound trembled and I howled for us to move. In a heartbeat, the lizardman was clear of the oncoming carnage as the surface layer of black arms came tumbling down.

How long had it been since I had the pleasure of fighting alongside someone who could pay attention and follow directions?

The crash from the flopping appendages filled the air with droplets of acidic decay. We had to wait for the debris to settle before returning to the battlefield.

Across the way, atop one of the few remaining clear stone outcroppings, I spotted the lizardman busily typing something into his gauntlet while glaring directly at me.

His scale pigment shined in the overcast sunlight. There were two tones and textures; glossy onyx coating his shoulders, back, calves, and outer forearms, converging around a sooty muted black glazed over his palms, neck, and muscular belly. He had the build of an extremely buff male razkur, but considerably more jagged. Every muscle was visible, and the sway of his short tubular quills was almost mesmerizing.

However, his wardrobe had an odd continuity.

Gauntlets, utility belt, half a pauldron, metal knee and elbow pads, with a skimpy loincloth beneath a codpiece that seemed to dare an opponent to just stab him now and reap the penalty.