It was not roots that broke the soil, though truthfully, the difference between flesh and earth was a technicality. The Duskwight's small eyes grew wide in the night, but the brows did not rise in fear. No, the old brows fell, his lips twitched, his older fingers curled in recognition of what at first looked like a bestial claw. Covered in mud, all gray and black in the darkness, that hand out of the earth clenched and released, clenched and released, shook its fist at the world.
The Duskwight gave the monument an accusatory look. If it had been a gravestone, it had been a lie. The dark nature of the thing was unmistakable, but what was it. He exhaled in a huff.
That hand in the earth: it moved. What had Oschon brought him here to see? Was it the monument, or was it this grasping hand? Was it beast or man, word or task? What vision had the wanderer brought him upon?
A high-pitched screech, shaking as though in panic, cut through the limbs to the Duskwight's ears. It might have been a pained cry from the girl that had been here before, or someone else. A person had screamed, but the cry had not interrupted the noise of the forest. They continued on, perhaps grew louder in response. Beasts in the darkness began to huff and groan. They began to stomp loudly to get his attention. The bark-like skin on the Duskwight's face scrunched up, the tattoos drawing sharp points at his confusion. There was a stink of alchemy in the air. It knit into the mud and the wind and the warm of the angry spirits, the scent of the dead antelope that finally stopped moving well to one side.
The forest protested the evening. It protested the monument, the hand in the mud, even the Duskwight himself. It seemed energized by the scream he had heard. Oschon, as ever, was reticent. The Duskwight was tempted to seek the screamer, but he did not. His old knees hit the mud with in front of the monument, and his wiry hand gripped the grasping hand in the earth. If it were not just a disembodied limb, then it was something worth looking into. He pulled on the hand, he dug feebly at the earth. His old bones hurt, but he ignored them.
The Duskwight gave the monument an accusatory look. If it had been a gravestone, it had been a lie. The dark nature of the thing was unmistakable, but what was it. He exhaled in a huff.
That hand in the earth: it moved. What had Oschon brought him here to see? Was it the monument, or was it this grasping hand? Was it beast or man, word or task? What vision had the wanderer brought him upon?
A high-pitched screech, shaking as though in panic, cut through the limbs to the Duskwight's ears. It might have been a pained cry from the girl that had been here before, or someone else. A person had screamed, but the cry had not interrupted the noise of the forest. They continued on, perhaps grew louder in response. Beasts in the darkness began to huff and groan. They began to stomp loudly to get his attention. The bark-like skin on the Duskwight's face scrunched up, the tattoos drawing sharp points at his confusion. There was a stink of alchemy in the air. It knit into the mud and the wind and the warm of the angry spirits, the scent of the dead antelope that finally stopped moving well to one side.
The forest protested the evening. It protested the monument, the hand in the mud, even the Duskwight himself. It seemed energized by the scream he had heard. Oschon, as ever, was reticent. The Duskwight was tempted to seek the screamer, but he did not. His old knees hit the mud with in front of the monument, and his wiry hand gripped the grasping hand in the earth. If it were not just a disembodied limb, then it was something worth looking into. He pulled on the hand, he dug feebly at the earth. His old bones hurt, but he ignored them.
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