The Hunter's Song

Chapter 4: Graven (Eh'kt)

🟨Content Warning: Brief self-harm is present in this chapter.

...

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 had hardened. It resembled a defenseless human male but every inch of the creature exuded threat.

"It may not bleed," Mourning Crow hopped up to my side. "But it is mortal. We can kill it."

I clashed my wrist blades together and growled in 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 ground crumbled apart and geysers sprang up everywhere as the Graven began levitating in the air and pulling shards of earth with it, as though it and the entire glade were suddenly 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 bio-mask. The deluge from the geysers had filled the air with noxious miasma, yet, her movements displayed no hint of discomfort. Perhaps she was simply acclimated to combat extremely toxic environments or maybe this was just another oddity specific to her species?

The aerial battlefield was in a state of constant flux. The 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 yautja gods some of the other clans continue to honor. But unlike the revered yautja gods, this Graven had no intention of fighting ethically.

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

Suddenly, I felt a faint flare of ire as a drop of warm blood trickled down my shoulder.

Severing a hunter's quill is a serious violation, especially from behind and at a distance. Not many of my brothers 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 an unblooded 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. Those beetle beasts didn't appear 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 would drift and spin 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 her path to deflect 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 yautja might define as a god.