The Hunter's Song

Chapter 3: Black Glade (Mourning Crow)

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

The invisible lizardman skittered through the spindly snarl like an irritable tarantula.

He was surprisingly agile despite his hulking build. It was a little disappointing that he had reactivated his cloaking device. 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 made my way toward the central tower, using my chain sickle to swing around the thrashing arms.

This Graven was an especially goopy sort.

I've 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 generally freaks out and runs away screaming like a coward right about now.

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

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

Well done! Here's a fellow who listens and comes prepared! However, it begs 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 arms was taking a severe beating, giving me the freedom to start hacking 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 a central artery. Him with his bombs and me with my trusty chain sickle piercing, strangling, and slicing away.

The mound started to tremble 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 been since I had the pleasure to fight alongside someone who could pay attention and follow directions?

The crash from the flopping appendages filled the air with droplets of water and 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 saw the black lizard's active camouflage flicker and shut down. He was busy typing something into his gauntlet while glaring directly at me.

His black scales were more visible 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 was built like an extremely buff male razkur, but considerably more jagged. Every muscle was visible, and the sway of his tubular spines was almost mesmerizing.

Although,  his wardrobe had an odd continuity.

There was a primal allure to the spartan configuration of his weapons and armaments fused with an obviously intentional declaration of vanity made evident by his extensive collection of color-coordinated silver accessories.