"I do mind," the wraith echoed calmly. "Not a walking conversation, though. Perhaps, once this is over."
There was a bone-deep comfort in order, and so deeper still his companion's behavior confused him. Things seemed so simple. Decided to die? Commit. Want to know? Commit. Make your will the leverage point and stab the intent deep. When body and soul are worn to tatters by aimless beating against the wind, what good is anyone?
He touched the hearth with his good hand. Still warm, though the embers have died out. Looked around in the darkness, reached out for the kindling. No stumbling, no blind hand motions, mundane and efficient as in daylight. He would not loot. He would not break things. He would leave some of the money on the table before departure.

Several knocks against the straw dampened by the water streaming off of him, and the fire started again. Walter didn't bother looking for a chair, sat right against the hearth wall, out of breath and splaying his back against uneven, cold stones. Head lolled, meeting the same obstacle, and he could feel the sheer weight of the clothes he'd have to yet muster undoing.
He was so tired.

A pause.
Damn it all, he couldn't just... leave it like that. It's not like he'd heard a heartbeat or anything, but his hearing was sharper than most. Someone was crying softly, woken up by the gargantuan noise no doubt, then thunder. They were alone in the darkness, trying to keep quiet lest worse would come.
"I'm not worried for us," he uttered, recollecting himself with a clear grimace of pain and growl of effort, a damp outline of his whole figure where he'd sat down and stretched out his legs, at long last, just a few moments earlier. The man really was restless. "It's alright. I'll handle it. And if you don't want me to, try moving me, obscurata."
 
Fire caught easily – like the man had done this before. An experienced hobo, then. Trevor didn't move to help. Guy had it well in hand. But for some reason the other man was still keen to argue. Trevor had been told he had one of those punchable faces. Sometimes demonstrably so. Maybe that was it. Perhaps he needed to be more visibly upset about the whole everyone-fucked-in-a-pit situation. And he was. But Trevor's grief had always been asymptomatic...unless there was booze around.

Then came the name. Obscurata. Whatever the fuck that was. Sounded expensive. Like burrata's brother. Trevor wouldn't mind some cheese finding them. It had been a while since the last proper meal. As the days got harder, he would often forget to eat. Never could forget a drink. But there was no time for such thoughts. No energy left to fight. If the stranger wanted to fight the sky – let 'em. Maybe he'd be less chatty once he was properly exhausted.

Trevor simply started shedding his clothes. The coat was the first to go. Why was this fucker so on edge? As the heavy fabric flattened by the hearth, his boot spread it on the ground. Wasn't perfectly even, but as long as it more or less dried by the time he needed it, he didn't care. Pulled the shirt over his head without too much issue. It was loose now. But it had always been his. Gods, was he ever that big? Shrugged the thought and simply hung it on a nail in the wall. Hunched over until he was short as those little green fucks that wanted to rob him in the Mhearas. Quickly unlaced his boots before kicking them off. Wet boots were the worst. If you played brave long enough, you lost a toe. If you were a real hero, was usually a whole foot. Luckily he was of a proper sort. Had all ten stinky toes to show for it. He straightened and unhooked his belt and the pants simply slid off. It was by some divine grace the piece of boiled leather still held. He wondered what he'd do when he lost one of the few possessions he still had. But that was a problem for future Trevor. Grabbed his ass to see if the undies had to go too. Eh – dry enough. Toes curled around the waistline and spread the pants out to match the coat. And he turned his dry enough ass around looking for a blanket to wrap himself in.

„You always this...intense?“ There wasn't a kinder way to put it.
 
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The rot sung in a way metal sings before snapping from tension. It was the baying of the bloodhound, the iron stench in the air at murder. Impossible to ignore, or shut out. The stranger eyeing him unleashed it, and now seemed surprised. Walter, in turn, could not help the confused frustration.
But feelings were nothing against the reason's grindstone. And here he was, thoughts weaving together as his body once again ran ragged on tenacity far beyond natural.

Dear gods, he hoped that it would not come to having to fight the stranger, at least, before the night was done. Not that he worshipped anything, anymore... But if they could not hear, then what made him - did not have the capacity to care. That capacity started with him, who had a will to act upon the world and the possibility to err.

He creaked open the door from the large main room into a narrow, sand-floored keeproom, simple shelves adorned with sacks and baskets for all kinds of storage, dried herbs hanging from the ceiling.
The whimpering stopped with a hiccup. The dimly glowing eyes found a small shape in the corner.

Old enough. His chest tightened. The boy stared at him, and though human eyes weren't fit for dark places, Walter knew that the boy saw, better than most adults who could attribute the notion to drifting smoke or a shiver in the air.
"Good to find someone alive in here," he stated. The steel in the ragged tone muffled, softened slightly. "We won't..." He was bad at this. Terrible bedside manners, but he had to try. "Don't worry, kid, I'm not a robber. I won't hurt you." Hard to believe given his exterior, but if he intended to - surely he wouldn't have minced words.

Words. Tangled in his throat with the taste of iron and rot. He wasn't grieving, it was hard to grieve the people he did not know. And yet, it was a horrible affair. One he had to remedy without throwing himself blindly onto a proverbial pyre.
"Something happened on the square, there is a lot of people injured, and every venue is going to be overflowing soon enough so long as..." ...the ones in charge take proper charge. Too long. "I'm sorry we barged in."
Silence. Terror.
"My companion and I will rest here for but a few hours."
Thank you for your hospitality.

He closed the door, and wandered back to the side of the hearth. Sat. Took off the boots, the sword belt and the overcoat down to the grey linen undershirt. Sighed, and added kindling to the growing flame, keeping the dagger and the bag close.
"Why? Does it bother you?"
 
They just got the drop on a kid. A fucking kid. And here he was prancing around the common room like some kind of nude ostrich. Well...maybe not ostrich. Those were probably taller than him. Grabbed the first thing. Looked blankety enough. Breaking into someone's home was bad enough. No need to give the lil' jit nightmares. Though, if they were keeping score, the stranger was probably the scarier one between them. The way he walked. The way he talked. Even the look in his eye – something was deeply wrong with that man.

Wanted to go over there and comfort the kid. Say something clever. He was good at that. But he wasn't good with little fuckers. And what to say? Hi, killed your folks – but think of the extra room you got? No...no. Best not to taint the situation any further. The stranger was telling the kid something and that had to be enough. The little one didn't scream yet. That was a start.

Trevor clocked it soon as the door shut. Creepy fucker left the kid in the dark. Course he did. Fucking ghoul probably thought it mercy. Stood for a moment, stunned. Clutched the scratchy blanket closer like some disgruntled grandma. Staring at the closed door. Thought maybe he'd imagined it. Maybe a candle. Door cracked. Something. But no. Just the dark.

Crossed the room in a few quick steps and opened the door quietly. Moved away as quickly as he arrived. Let the fire spill a little. You didn't leave kids in dark storage. They weren't potatoes.

And he knew what the dark did to men. It did worse to little things.

And because, in that moment, he had a lot less patience for the creep at his side.

„Might be best if you don't talk for a bit.“

Moved away to scour the home. Something to eat. A drink if he was lucky. Anything to be away from the man.
 
The man in question stilled with his back straight, against the hearth side. His eyes followed movement to the recently closed door. He could hear the shuffle of the kid shifting away. Not enough bravery to go confront them, or try flee past them, just yet. And they weren't trapping him either.
The rot was spreading. Seeping in. Not good for anyone but.
Eyes closed, lips parted, veins pulsed a darker purple for a bit, reaching the jugular it seemed. A breath, ragged, like stopping after a long run. His swollen feet were still cold, but no longer swollen. His cut head had long since healed. His joints stopped aching for the weather. The cold shakes went away, though not for long.

Not invigorated, but the fraying edges were once again smooth and sharply cut.
Eyes closed. Some of his garb was still wet. He didn't want to talk, so the suggestion suited him just fine. Hand on the dagger handle, the worn family thing straight as a fancy, for stabbing.
How long could he keep going on un-fraying himself? He didn't know, didn't want to push it too far. A Harvest would solve it. The Thing Below was strong, waking, a challenge, a feast, though probably not edible.
He had to take care of the stomach, too.
After.
Priorities.
...and this was how he'd overstrain.

He seemed to have drowsed off, breathing so slowly and deeply that it was hard to track his chest rising and falling. Quiet - no snoring, no half-woken muttering or groans. Now and then, without warning - the eyes were open, and he was staring, before closing them again.
He had to pull himself away from risk of faultering when it came to fighting Thing Below. Bound by grim intent and awareness worse than some twisted lovers, he knew that it thought of him, too.
 
House settled into quiet. And his feet knew to match it. The ghoul had stopped pretending to be alive. If the kid made another sound, it never reached Trevor. Which didn't mean anything. He didn't look towards storage. Couldn't. Not yet. Busied himself instead with the slow pillage of cupboards. They were all begging to creak, but his movements were practiced. Like lives depended on them once. And they had. Quiet never left a man steeped in it, it just moved as needed. Quiet room was the worst. But he wasn't in a position to complain. Because in one way or another, he'd killed for this small bit of comfort. Found some kind of root things. Bit into it and it didn't break his tooth. Sour little reds. Those hadn't grown back home. Found a couple carrots, soft to the touch. They didn't seem rotten yet – just lucky enough to be eaten at the last possible moment. Their tiny carrot lives having reached their full length. And this was all good, but he wasn't trying to feed rabbits.

His face lit up when he finally clutched his hand around something small and tough. Might've been jerky. Might've been shoe leather. Didn't really care. If he shaved it thin enough, the little fucker wouldn't choke on it. Found some moldy bread. Scraped off the ugly bit. That was for him and the stranger. He wasn't about to give the kid runs. The other two had well deserved any shits that found 'em.

What he didn't find was drink. „Course not.“ He whispered loud enough for Her to hear. Checked in. But She wasn't whispering or laughing. Just a silence. Tightlipped today, then. Muttered something about being cursed and resigned himself to a life of sobriety. For the day.

Did what he could with the food. Cut this, boil that. Added any herbs that smelled better than his feet. Cutting had been a struggle – their knives duller than some spoons he'd known. One of them bent a carrot. But it was fine. He was used to things going wrong.

Something warm. Something plain. Enough for three if he skipped on the adult portions. By the time he was done, the corpse-in-training by the hearth was asleep. Or dead. Hard to tell. And he sure as shit wasn't going to poke him to find out. Just set a bowl beside the man, quiet as death. Took the second bowl and tiptoed towards the storage. Left it at the threshhold. Didn't look inside. Or say a word. Didn't need to be their friend. Still didn't want anyone to go hungry.

Leaned against the wall. Ate straight from the pot – a mangled mess of knife and fingers. Didn't take much. No need. Kid shouldn't starve when they left.

One last look outside to make sure they didn't attract any looters. Well, any other looters.

And that's how sleep found him. Slumped by the enterance.
 
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He mourned his cloak briefly. It was a good thing for quite a few years, wool from some odd long-necked sheep, not just woven but also thickened in the underlayer and, long ago, doused in a special dye that made the outer layer more resistant to rain. Better than oiling or waxing it, he reckoned, though the process wasn't very clear.
He could hear the breathing, knife slicing some softer things apart, occasionally tapping against a surface when the cut had to be delivered with force. The stranger was cooking with whatever he'd find in the house. Walter had money for what he could glimpse in the brief wakeful moments with eyes open. Not quite sleep. Not here. Not where it wasn't safe.

His eyes opened when a bowl landed next to him, and picked it up slowly, eyeing the deliverer.
"Kind thanks." The almost neutral tone did not hint surprise, but wasn't taking the gesture for granted.
He wolfed away the bowl's contents right the next beat, careful not to waste nor spill a drop, patient to let every crumb roll over the edge into the hungry mouth. The taste was... vegetables, carrot, radishes, some green like spinach, and horse jerkey. And whatever else, it did not matter, anything was better than nothing, and warmth slowly, arduously started spreading from the central axis of his body, from the stomach, through his core. The tired face lightened in relief, moved from its stoic mask.

The other mover did not want to talk, and neither did Walter - not out of a grudge, not anymore if there was one.
Silence fell, again, for a long while. When Walter next opened his eyes, the stranger was asleep by the door. Smart.

A face lingered around the corner, wide eyes peering at him.
"Hey, lad," Walter whispered.
"Do you... know where mom and dad are?" also keeping it low and careful not to wake another shadow that barred the door.
N... N-... Lips pressed together in protest.
Only truth now.
"Yes. Do you have any aunts, or uncles?"
"Grandma lives next street."
"What does she do?"
"She makes shawls and quilts, and repairs things."
"Is she usually home in the evenings?"
A nod. "Her eyes are bad. She doesn't come out when it's dark."
Walter nodded. Reached to the side of him - saw the boy almost scamper back to hide, stilled for a moment. "Hush, it's just some coin. Look, the dagger's on the floor, I'm not reaching for it."
A few coins wasn't much. Would probably cost more to bury... But he offered them all the same, in an open palm. He could make more. He could go without for longer than most. The boy was still just a boy, though not for long.
"Here is some money. For our stay. Check on your grandma come morning. Keep together. I will be leaving soon."
The boy's eyes fell outside. Pitch black. No lanterns, no torches, no candles in the windows. About to be the darkest hour before the sky would even begin to lighten - and that is, if it did not rain again. Walter could almost sense the fear welling up again as the look shifted back to him.

He lowered his eyes, and pulled the boots closer, hoping they'd at least gone from soaked to unpleasantly damp.
"There is some kind of evil awake where the ground fell. I've rested. It's time."
He'd left the bowl by the hearth, forgotten - but not any of his equipment, which, wet or dry, was being affixed once again exactly as it was, save for the cloak, clicking and clacking, leather creaking.
 
Never much liked the night. Or the sleep promised with it. Because it wasn't a time Trevor rested. It was when he remembered. The things he'd done and hadn't. Always worried he'd mutter something he didn't want anyone hearing. And most nights, he was right to worry. Morning found him clutching the blanket with all of his negligible might. Like he was holding onto something. Before light took it. Couldn't even remember what it was when his eyes opened. Only that it was missed. Better that way. Taught himself long ago not to keep names – only number and smell. And the waking hours smelt of wet dog and an aching back.

The other guy was already preparing. Suppose it made sense. He did seem antsy to get the whole thing resolved. Knew a lot of men like that. Ones that only saw problems and their solutions. Rarely saw the people caught inbetween. Rarely understood that sometimes problems were the lesser evil. Because everyone wanted to fix things. No one ever asked the cost.

His eyes adjusted to the stillgloom of the room. Ears picked apart the quiet. Toes felt at the cold stone. Could still pick up a faint scent of whatever you'd call what he prepared last night. That made him think of the little fucker. Turned his head towards the passage and saw the bowl still there, untouched. Boy was right not to trust him. Not even Trevor trusted Trevor. But he always tried. And most days he could tell himself that had been enough.

Night was simple enough to live through. Tomorrow brought the work. The unease of stranger's presence. And the creeping dread of what he'd consider a solution. No. If something was to be done, that creature couldn't be trusted to do so alone. He simply wasn't human enough.

„Slept well?“ Trevor unfolded himself like one of those beach chairs he'd seen in Whiteport. Every joint scolded him for the floor and the draft. Let 'em. He could take it. Shed the blanket and what little warmth was left and marched to the allfamilar call of his uniform. Fumbled with pants, back pressing onto the lukewarm hearth. Fingers pulled the leather tighter, and for a moment he noticed the briefest darkness in the veins of his wrist. Might've been an infection from the hurts on the road thus far. That would've been an earned way to die. Nothing grand. Just the slow whittle of sweat and bile. Doubted he'd get off that easy. Shirt. Boots. Coat. All damp and complaining. Three moments and he was dressed. But not ready.

He would never be ready for what might've waited at the bottom of the pit.
 
"Slept enough," the wraith echoed back.
He was alert again, awareness spreading like a mantle to the smallest creak in the floor, every cold draft against the cheek, any scent out of place. Brows furrowed, mouth in a tighter, stern line as he braced internally. He'd have to make up for lost time.
It waited. It was a small miracle that it did not yet move, making him wonder if the awareness was perhaps his mind finally cracking under pressure and playing tricks on him. But no, he would err in anything but in knowing, even if comprehension bypassed any worldly ability to explain it out loud. That was the prize for the price.

Attention lingered on the vagabond mover gearing up as well. The way he went about it - strikingly familiar, to the point where a notion visited, perhaps, the stranger was a sell sword once. Didn't have to be. The rigors of the road trained one quick, he supposed. And yet, there was no need for any of the other's preparations.
"You can stay with the boy," he suggested, "guard till the morning, be on your way after. It's the witching hour, no place for man to roam outside. Come dawn, I will be done one way or the other."

No other folk would be in the way - small or otherwise, they were frail compared to him. They lived lives, small and big, that ran their course, and deserved to be free of the fomorian nightmares.
"Some things best remain unseen and unlearned, for everyone's peace, obscurata." Stark warning perhaps, but not out of arrogance. Walter dropped his gaze down, adjusted the empty sword belt, swung the road bad across and tightened two small buckles so it would shift less as he moved. Done. "I do not expect you to understand, I also cannot promise that I will be able to protect you."
 
Got a good laugh in at that. Trevor staying with he kid would've been a disaster to rival whatever was waiting in the chasm.

„Then it is a good thing we're not men.“ Wasn't sure what the stranger was. But knew himself. Words tasted like ash. Too sober for this shit.

Proceeded towards the exit, but memory caught his step just shy. Turned around and addressed the kid:

„If someone comes in and you're alone – pretend you're robbing the place.“ Everyone had to learn at a certain age. Guess it was better to learn too early than too late. „They won't kill a thief.“ But they might a witness.

With that, he was gone into the not yet morning.
 
So be it.

He did not carry a light to the streets outside, steps falling one after the other, and breath fell into that same steady rhythm, attuning, un-fraying, alert.

Every exhale clouded the damp, frigid, stillborn air that hung under a dreary moonless sky. The quiet crept around corners with the strings and wisps of fog - at first, barely a cobweb fading, then a veil undulating and hiding the next street over, muffling sounds and smoothing shapes. And with those tiny specks of water in the air, arrived the tidal wave of the Shroud. It resonated through the air like a singing bowl to anyone who could feel it, it brought the might of an ancient abandoned pool; a glimpse of the bottom of the ocean, with the currents to match that tugged not at the body, but the very soul, and dragged, deeper, closer.
It spread from the crater, condensing at the bottom, hiding it half-way down.

They heard the first voice long before the person could be seen. A terrified shriek cradled by the fog almost completely into silence though it was a bare dozen feet away. A man at the edge of the sinkhole, stared, not at them - past them, and, with an incoherent yelp, scampered down to where the fog swayed like a freshly masqueraded flatfish.

The wraith's eyes glowed dimly as they traced the direction, then stared into the thickness of the fog as closely as if there were writings on it.
"It lies," he said simply.
And started making his way down the embankment, bandaged hand against the dirt. The fog seemed to be thinner where they were, though not by much. Once covered fingers touched the ground - the misty film recoiled visibly. A low, almost headache-inducing vibration rolled through the crater, echoed against its walls, sent small cobblestones and dirt clumps down in places.

The hurrying panicked man reached the bottom before them. To the side, the fog parted for a moment, revealing a slanted crevice with the ground looming over it in a sheet. A passageway, a ways off.

A woman, muttering, pleading with someone, was digging fervently at the centerpoint, fingernails broken, eyes wide and affixed to something only she could see. A man was trying to pull another to the crevice. They dropped the torch when their altercation turned into blows. The torchlight lingered, a pathetic, dying ember. A wisp of fog covered it, orange to pale yellow to milky white - and then the light was gone.
None of them should have been here by now.
 
Trevor was used to the gloom of almostlight. Those were the times it was easiest to leave unannounced. Because nobody bothered before the Sun. If the star could hold off then so could the eyes and questions. And for the best, really.

Something strange suffused the air. He felt before he saw. The pressure and the itch. That one annoying bead of sweat that rolled from spine to worse. Storm was coming, and they were short a windbreak. Shroud thick enough to be visible even to the uninitiated. It wasn't a loud thing. Just wrong enough to invite brows up and noses down. It messed with his insides – parts he thought reserved for booze and quiet. Pulled like fucking hooks. Dragged him like a fish. Only one direction. Down. Always.

And it hid. Because it didn't want to kill you. It wanted you closer.

Fog screamed someone out of existence. Only a fidgety fucker overlooking the depths to bear witness. He went down, melded to grey like he'd never been. Men were going strange already. Not a good sign. And come to think of it – the hum in his ears. He thought it shroudpressure. But now... he was starting to recognize the tune. Been near ten years. Still sharp.

His companion said something about lies. It summoned Trevor back to present. A shaky hand wiped the sweat. Why was he sweating? It was cold.

None of them should've been here by now. That stuck. Scavengers and worse things came either with night or under first light. Never during the inbetween. Watched the woman claw at the earth like money was owed. Mutters of lips gone raw. Saw men wrestle like dogs over a hole that didn't want either. A tumble. A hiccup of shroud. Then nothing. Familiar. That's how it always went.

Boots sank lower with each step. Like the dirt had missed them.

And through it all, rhythmic digging. In a heartbeat not their own.

He wasn't sure when the urge started. Might've been the first step, or the one after. But it stepped lightly. Just a thought. If he helped but a moment, got his hands dirty, maybe he'd get it. Maybe they'd all stop. It wasn't a loud thing. Just a whisper between breaths. One only he could hear.

Dig.
 
He let clarity reign, and understood the blood-soaked soil, the hunger, the acerbic odor seeping from the ground the lower they got. The fog sang, an imperceptible resonance in which everyone must have heard something. It was - 'a known voice', the closest word that came to comprehension. A whisper, a song, a soft query, a desperate plea for help, a rabid promise of violence.

He did not hear a thing that was not there. The wisps of woven Shroud trailed past his lips into an inhale - and split into Shroud once more, passing through him, lingering at the impossible margin between his core and at the outer brink of his shell like light trapped and bent around a paradoxical structure.
He did not hear the ghosts, instead - a low hiss, like air seeping through a log about to crack from heat in a fire. The rumble of the earth, the slightest of vibrations that travelled all the way to the bottom of the pit, and to its edges, to the openings and moleways that led further below. The mutters and moans, chattering of madmen skulking, digging, rushing, fighting their way into the tunnels, trail blazing the routes deeper in.

This kind of duty really changed a man who did not flee it.

The sky was no longer in view, obscured by the milky veil of fog at first, then enveloped by the ground. The other obscurata must have had a Sight of his own, Walter surmised, not needing a light where even a cat would not see ahead itself. Though not for the fog, which thinned once more as they progressed, only at intervals travelling and seeming to pour out of the crevice into the sinkhole in opaque and billowing clouds.

Dark streaks, viscous and thick like melted flesh, polluted walls and floor, stretched by their feet. Small sprouts and fibers at first, soon knitting into something much like clumps of mold, round bulbous spore tops turning in the direction of whatever moved. The tunnel was uneven , not carved nor dug - a wider gap between two monumental swaths of rock, gradually expanded by ground waters that have now receded with the shifting pressure. Like walking into something's throat along its own tongue.

The way led down, uncharted and unlit, and on a turn it took there was a softer slip of silt and clay - and on it, drag marks. A shed button, almost buried. No blood.
Walter knelt beside the spot, his eyes will'o'wisps in the dark - there was no struggle. Bandaged fingers touched to an irregularity - a rounder, long track that did not leave an imprint of leather, cloth or partial handprint like the rest. The dagger had already somehow found its way into his good left hand.
In this cut-off space, it was particularly eerie how quietly the man moved, as if the fog's strange relation with sound reflected in him, too.

The ceiling moved. Not the rock, the thing that stretched beyond the bend of the tunnel further down, that plastered itself on that ceiling flat, like an enormous heavy leech, and now dispatched, a multitude of legs, or, perhaps, pedipalps, opening wide on both its sides - to grab.
Impatient. Close enough.
 
Only Trevor didn't see shit. Didn't have to. The accumulated misfortune was so thick down here that Luck demanded an impressive counterweight. Every turn was correct. Each step certain. Even his breathing managed to miss some of the smell. Come to think of it – what was the smell? He'd been in the bowels of the earth before. Back when they were tunneling under Ceax walls. Command oblivious to Twain all around. Smelled some weird things in that fuckin' tunnel before it was done. Nothing like this, though.

His hands hovered at the edges of the tunnel. Only the lightest touches. Too smooth to be dug by hand. He'd seen shroudshit capable of carving like this before – but the wet under his fingers felt fleshy. Like they were already traversing the guts of a beast. His nails couldn't help it. Touch to claw to take. Smallest bits pulled away every time he brushed the wall.

Dig.

Trevor didn't stop when the stranger did. Faint wisps of eyeball his only measure of distance – he could see he beat him by a couple steps. Whatever it was the other man saw had him hunched over. Almost heard an unsheathing sound. Perhaps that was just old nerves. He should've gotten one of those blunt things from the boy's home. Would've at least made him look dangerous. But maybe he was overthinking it. Dark was the great equal. All men grew similar. All fears melded. It had been some time since he properly felt it. Some nights when he dreamt of it – this is how he imagined it. Only dreams ended before something moved.

Foot found a muddy patch. „Huh.“ Was all he could manage as his ankle rolled and body slipped to the side of the passage. Before he had time to appreciate the surprise, he felt...a thing moving to his right. Slow wind of a missed movement. Because the luckfuck wasn't where he was supposed to be.

Was lucky like that.
 
It was a tendril, ending in a man-sized swath of fleshy mass, its cartilaginous hardened gums bristling along each vertical segment when it landed and ground the earth with no purchase onto its targets. Two smaller, thinning feelers whipped on both sides, arched to regain position. One slammed into the solid stone right beside Trevor, with enough gusto that would have cracked bone if only it landed.
Walter was upon the mass before it moved away. The dagger ripped into the meat, stringy and tough, which squirmed and reshaped itself even as the blade moved to pierce deeper. Not to pin it - to gain purchase on top of it.

Bandages frayed and failed into threads. The skeletal grip dug phalanxes deep at the second anchoring point, black mass turning into squelching putty. The mass jerked, moved in a numb, slowing struggle, trying to retract deeper where the tunnels led and blind people wandered, scurried, drew closer.

The Shroud hummed, its deep resonance like a whale song, going through earth and every living thing that carried it in its breath, reverberating in the bones. The chaos would manifest and almost immediately fade in a plethora of static sparks, heat spots, chittering or air bursting through cracks. The energy was split apart, from where it existed in the world and manifested into a thing, a warmth, a light - back to its primal form, pulled agonizingly from the unknown monstrosity's limb.

Walter barely freed the dagger in time to cut and split a piece of feeler whipping at him from the root. One deadly, upward slash. The laxing limb struck his shoulder with not enough momentum, he swayed, but stayed on top, his right hand rooted in the thing's flesh. A dagger should not have dealt a cut like this. But the song curled around the obscurata, and quietened in whispers of the voices that lingered after.

The Thing Below shifted. Just a few dozen paces further, an elderly man who thought that he was digging out his grand-niece - got splattered on the wall by another swath of disorganized flesh ramming into him, as the gargantuan, unseen whole writhed in pain.
And - like a bride's veil, its black blood spreading the cold stench of rust and lilacs - it started pulling its unresponsive limb towards its center, along the shortest route.
It knew the one with deadly intent was getting closer, too.
It knew that people chipping away at the rubble on its back have just shifted a portion of the frustrating weight away. Not long now.
 
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