The beasts frothed in their confusion, and Antelope were the least among them. Claws and teeth gnashed and tore at the earth, drool matting coarse fur on the chins of a half dozen beasts that on any other day would have no common cause. Obscured, the features of the Duskwight and the unearthed Miqo'te were like a shadow slipping inside shadows. The Shroud's quarry was maddeningly invisible to the forest, and the beasts who knew only the instruction to seek and kill, saw nothing but anonymous passersby.
And the beasts, dull and agitated as they were, attacked. The forest, in its callousness and blindness, attacked without thought.
The Duskwight was not kind to the forest in return. Two beasts were torn from the ground, bones snapping, caught up in strange snares that placed their weight on branches that could only hold their writhing forms for a moment before they crashed down. The silent forest shivered with bestial death throes and snapping limbs, groaning trees in anger, and even the earth shuffled as the roots beneath writhed in desperate wish to find the invisible quarry.
In all of this, the Duskwight was a rickety black form, slipping through the shadows like an orobon through muck. His ancient steps and bent spine were oddly unable to snare him, his aged limbs somehow carrying him though they moved weakly and slow. Darkness and thunder, no lightning, the screeches and coughs of dying animals and the groan of wood, a distant scream without source, and the voice of the Duskwight in the dark, "Follow me. Do not slow. Follow."
And the beasts, dull and agitated as they were, attacked. The forest, in its callousness and blindness, attacked without thought.
The Duskwight was not kind to the forest in return. Two beasts were torn from the ground, bones snapping, caught up in strange snares that placed their weight on branches that could only hold their writhing forms for a moment before they crashed down. The silent forest shivered with bestial death throes and snapping limbs, groaning trees in anger, and even the earth shuffled as the roots beneath writhed in desperate wish to find the invisible quarry.
In all of this, the Duskwight was a rickety black form, slipping through the shadows like an orobon through muck. His ancient steps and bent spine were oddly unable to snare him, his aged limbs somehow carrying him though they moved weakly and slow. Darkness and thunder, no lightning, the screeches and coughs of dying animals and the groan of wood, a distant scream without source, and the voice of the Duskwight in the dark, "Follow me. Do not slow. Follow."
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