The Hunter's Song

4: Graven (Eh'kt)

Wet sheets of black slime slid off the figure, leaving behind a glossy white bipedal form glistening like a freshly emerged pupa before its carapace hardened. It resembled a defenseless human male, but every inch of the creature secreted threat.

"Don't be fooled," Mourning Crow hopped up to my side. "It is mortal. We can kill it."

I straightened my rip-claw daggers and clashed blades together with a growl of confirmation. Then I sprinted left while Mourning Crow flanked to the right.

The faceless Graven extended its arms, arching them over its head into a sacred point. Six additional arms split from its torso and cascaded into an eerily pious formation. Then the creature spun and began contorting its limbs while simultaneously compelling the ravaged terrain to submit to its dominion.

The Graven began levitating in the air, pulling shards of stone from the earth as the ground crumbled apart and geysers sprang up everywhere. Suddenly, the creature and the entire glade came unhinged from gravity.

None of this insanity phased Mourning Crow. She bounded up the floating rubble with zero hesitation.

I had to wonder how she was fairing without a helmet. The noxious miasma spewing from the geysers saturated the air, yet Mourning Crow's movements displayed no hint of discomfort. Maybe she had become accustomed to combat in extremely toxic environments, or perhaps this was just another oddity specific to her species?

The aerial battlefield was in a state of constant flux. Debris tumbled and torpedoed in every direction, with the Graven acting as the celestial dancing nucleus. Its series of stances was reminiscent of the ancient carvings depicting old Zhaguai gods that some of the other clans continue to honor. But unlike the revered Zhaguai gods, this Graven had no intention of fighting ethically.

Mourning Crow made no objection to my presence during her hunt and even embraced my arsenal into her tactics.

Suddenly, a faint surge of ire flared in my chest as a drop of warm blood trickled down my shoulder.

Severing a Zhagaui's quill was a serious violation, especially from behind and at a distance. Each were flesh and blood appendages. Few of my kin would have been so quick to see beyond her insult. But as many of my rivals have made it their mission to point out, I am abnormal.

Why strain yourself when you can wield the weight and power of the big goons against one another?

Mourning Crow's strategy was one I was very familiar with and had served me well throughout my training as a tail-wagging pup. For cycles, I may have been small for my age, but I trained five times harder and I always emerged the winner.

Nevertheless, that voice of hers could have gotten my attention with a tad less bloodshed. The beetles weren't particularly intelligent, but there was a fair argument for not spelling out the plan within earshot of our enemies.

As if attuned to my thoughts, Mourning Crow's manic laughter pulled my attention up. She had her chain sickle out and was gaining momentum while maneuvering through an actively hostile obstacle course.

Stones drifted and spun just enough to provide unstable footing. Meanwhile, the Graven continued dancing and circulating its unnatural barrier.

No matter how close Mourning Crow would get, there was always some impediment swooping in and deflecting her attacks. Yet her assaults persisted. Again and again, the mad rabbit was relentless.

I had to commend her tenacity. The two of us were over a hundred feet in the air fighting a powerful telekinetic being that more primitive Zhaguai might have mistaken as a god.