Another grinding lick resounded in the hollow cavern, bouncing off the rough marble and echoing slightly as it trailed off into the abysmal bowels. His blade had been cleaned of all the blood and grime that had clung to it, and now Keter labored himself with further maintenance.

There was something calming about the repetitive motion of sliding the steel along stone. Ever-careful of keeping the edge level, the curve true, the motion smooth. Man were creatures of habit, and sharpening had grown his habit indeed.

He raised the slightly curved edge to his eye and allowed the early morning sun’s bleak light to dance across the metal. Frowning, he rubbed his thumb across the cut, sensing a burr forming at the apex. He’d ground off too much iron. Still, it was better than carrying a dull blade around. His father had once told him ‘if the edge can’t pop hairs, it has no use at your hip’.

Keter pressed his finger in a bundle of tinder, placed on the bare floor. Magic, for how obscure that it had felt at first, was surprisingly easy to use. He sucked in a lungful of air, so now he had both fuel and oxygen, all he needed at this point was heat. He pushed his breath out, slow, into the murky grotto, and willed fire to rise.

The kindling started to smolder, uncertainly sputtering at first as he still felt the weight from his usage past night, but as Keter guided his breath at the begging flames - they grew, and more wood began to sunder. The clay pot with animal fat would soon soften up. Ready to be applied to the weaponry. Waiting for that, Keter stropped the blade on some leather in the meantime.

Magic didn’t seem to require words of power, animal sacrifice or other occult catalysts. You simply willed it, and so it would happen. Very much like one would command their arm to grasp a glass of water. Similarly, it still required a lot of control and experience; lest the glass shatter and the water spill. All fire required was heat, making it the easiest worldly thing to influence.

Keter dabbed the cleanest rag he could find in the fat and started distributing it evenly across the blade’s length. As his muscles stretched and worked, the aches from last night’s struggle returned; especially his left shoulder. This, however, was nothing new. His previous body was a map of scars and gashes and patchwork. In time, this hide would harden too.

Turning the blade around once more, inspecting the bowie grind, Keter found himself pondering once more; who had made this? Surely not the greenskins. When he had found this weapon, it was rusted, battered and unknown to maintenance. These things could make simple tools, true. But the secrets of metallurgy seemed quite a way’s away for such savage beings.

After rubbing the rest of the fat on the hide poncho he wore for clothing, Keter gathered his meagre belongings and set off once more. Humans or other intelligent life had to be near here, no doubt. The blade didn’t seem eons old. It couldn’t be a last relic from a bygone age. Or so Keter hoped. Greenskins weren’t smart enough for their hunt to be enjoyable.

Immediately after Keter left his earthen shelter, he was welcomed by the forest’s sounds and smell. A low, chilly breeze, the last remnant of last night’s storm, wove its way between tall trees and hardy briar. He sucked in a lungful of dewy air, marveling at the nostalgic feel lingering in the deepest core of his mind; from long ago when stalking the wild was his only nature. This was where he belonged.

Keter followed the trail that had led him to the cave, moving past great arch trees and through everlasting scrubs. Nature was slowly reclaiming the worn earth, long trudged over many years by thirsty greenskins who made their way to water. And water he found.

While the greenery grew thicker around the flow, and Keter’s shoulder ached – pulling at the crude stitches – eventually the thicket made way for passage. The calm stream trickled across river-smooth stones, glittering in the pale light. Leaves, crumbled and auburn floated peacefully downwards, following the earth’s slope.

If there was civilization to be found, Keter’s biggest chance of discovering it was to commit to the stream, as flowing water is a necessity for any thriving community to flourish. It could be used to drink and wash, but also clean and cook; to water crops and maintain livestock; even to power granaries, forges, watermills. The possibilities were near limitless given that the beholder sees its value and the many uses it presents.

It came to him, then; an almost nostalgic sensation. Like the feel of grandmother’s old rug between your naked toes. The sound of mother’s cooing voice in your home. A lover’s purr in the bed.

Like honey to the bee; like water to the fish: blood was to the Destroyer.

Its rich stench floated on the low winds, sweet and of bitter iron that teased his hanging tongue. He could almost taste it as real as he felt spit fill his agape mouth. Blinking, he rid himself from the trans-like state and slinked to the pricking bushes, bustling with dark leaves. Keter pressed his aching body to the damp soil, fingers of one hand digging in the biting cold. The other held his overbuilt blade.

Through the clawing canopy, light sifted down displaying orange and yellows by degrees as the sun pierced the autumn roof. And from in-between the bright display, a creature of frightening bravura stalked.

Its size rivaled a Kodiak’s, yet its limbs were deceivingly lean. Hind legs like a preying bird, yet those at the front appeared horribly human; long, wiry hands and fingers with razor claws at the end. Its head was unmistakably that of a crow: black of plume and long of beak. Just as the two gargantuan wings, protruding from its shoulder blades; both black as pitch and draping like curtains of midnight.

It walked on three, using the knuckles of its free hand like an ape, while clutching a gored greenskin in its remaining paw. Its head bobbed and swiveled around as the thing moved with eerie quiet along the sodden duff. Nearing the clear stream, the monster shot another glance around before dunking the greenskin in the water, three times, then holding it up for inspection while balancing itself on its hindlegs.

Keter stared, fascinated, as the creature went through these motions almost mechanically; washing its prize. It seemed such a sophisticated habit – ridding your food of grime and disease. Keter had never tried greenskin meat, as the sheer smell of the tainted, orange flesh had him riled. But, as the yellow ichor flowed downstream, and the meat cleared, it appeared significantly more appealing.

As he laid there, transfixed, Keter lost track of time; staring aghast at the unnatural scene. The sun had climbed higher to its throne before the creature was satisfied with its labor. Now left with clear-white meat, it pranced off into the deep auburn.

Keter took his time before raising himself, though he was shivering from the wet earth that stole the heat form his skin. Confident as he was in his abilities to kill a greenskin or two; the Prowl, as he decided on naming it, appeared beyond his capabilities at this time.

The champion was not he who defeated all opponents; it was he who crushed all those he chose to fight. The nuance there makes the threadbare difference between life under the sun, and the embrace of a shallow grave.

No matter how strong, how fierce, how clever; everything and everyone will meet their inevitable end. Even the Prowl had glanced around before starting its work. Proof enough for Keter to tell him the creature knew of death and danger. He’d hunt it one day, but not today.

*

The river slithered almost endlessly, terraforming the world around it as it moved in the bosom of two inclines. Up ahead, mountains shapes like massive teeth claimed the horizon; the sun, dancing uncertainly at their peaks.

Keter had climbed many o’ mountain in his time, but never with the pitiful collection of gear he carried with now. Nothing but a crude hide poncho as clothing, a simple bag made of greenskin leather to keep some bare necessities, and his iron blade. Poise nor willpower would be providing any aid in the endeavor. Surely, he would freeze, starve, or die of thirst before breaching the summit.

Squinting his eyes to slits, Keter peered at where the river coursed, where two piles of rock met, he saw it to be lower. More crag than mountain. At least his chances of surviving the journey would be better through there.

As he traversed the terrain, he noticed that around him oddly shaped stones jutted from the soil, covered by a thin sheet of dead foliage or soggy moss, glistening with wet. They were cone or dome-shaped, and either smooth or strangely rippled. Some only poked up between the thicket, while others rose proudly between the reaching trees.

And as he neared the mountain range, they only increased in amount. Close inspection showed them as no more than rock. At least not at first glance. Yet, Keter noted they slimly resembled sculptures, carved by nature rather than man with impressive symmetry.

He continued walking, the sky warping deep and dark – the sun no more than a slim line. Then there was a noise. He crouched, instantly; ears perked, eyes peeled, and legs strained to leap away at the faintest note of danger.

The sound came again, echoing oddly with sharp pitches. All around. Frowning, Keter failed at finding the source. Pivoting, he took a step. The sound woke again, snapping madly like thin ice. He realized, too late.

The floor shook, dirt crumbled, stone split and Keter was swallowed by the earth’s abysmal maw.