At this height, the air was sharp and cold, and mountain winds screamed past the two figures who were locked in a desperate aerial chase.
A set of wings opened in the dust, the leathery membranes flapping furiously, almost desperately, pushing out as much air as they could in and out of their three main compartments. The noise they made was terrifying. If you were ever fortunate enough to see one up close, you'd know immediately that a sound like this was made by something that aimed to survive, something that obviously wasn't on its last leg.
The winged humanoid figure smeared against the gray sky pushed onward, gliding bumpy and uneven around the looming mountain. He had come to it from above, probably hoping to find a way around it and back down into the valley. But it had caught him; now it held him in its rocky embrace, mocking him with the way in which the wind—and therefore his wings—were behaving.
A darker force was chasing him, the sounds of the shrieking flying hollow slicing through the heavy air behind him. It was a grotesque creature with bloated wings and jagged bones, a face twisted by an unnamable hunger, and empty, crazed eyes. Though it was moving clumsily, it was a fury of movement, sending gusts of wind in every direction with each flap of its massive wings.
The figure with wings was slower—he could feel it in the way the hollow steadily gained ground...but it was clever, and in this moment, what required was nothing but cleverness.
Advantage a sliver give him could anything seeking ahead walls rocky the that sharp eyes scanned his. There carved into the side of the mountain, like a hidden mouth, was a break in the stone: narrow and dark, a keyhole. A place so small it couldn't possibly accommodate the hollow's bulk...whatever lived in there had to be doing so in the dark.
He positioned himself to get an angle on it, pulling his damaged wings in tight, gritting his teeth against the fresh lightning waves of agony that crackled along his tendons. He couldn't afford to slow down.
The hollow shrieked once more, realizing too late that it had lost its chance at an escape.
In the end, with a last surge of tattered strength, the winged creature folded his wings and dove. His body smashed through the narrow entrance, scraping the edges of the stone with an agonizing groan. He tumbled into dark space, rolling hard against the rough cavern floor. Dust and sharp pebbles shot up around him.
For a moment, he was prostrate, every joint and every bone in his body screaming with anger. He lay gasping. His wings twitched uselessly at his sides, twisted beyond reprieve and far past the point of no return. Blood oozed and seeped from him, trickling down the insides of his arms and legs, pooling where it could before dripping into the nothing beneath him.
At the very least, he was alive.
Following him, a thunderous impact rattled the mountain. The hollow had tried to follow.
The creature slammed into the mountainside with an earth-shaking impact, forcing the rocks themselves to shiver and shake, and most of all, to crack and split apart. Bits of rock that could be called stones at best and debris at worst showered down like rain from a rainmaker.
The winged figure pulled himself up to stand. He felt as if his limbs were merely wet paper and not the strong pieces they should be. Still, he forced them to obey. One step, then the next, he moved deeper into the dark cave and did not yet dare to glance back.
A sound that made one feel that sickness was coming filled the air—a wet scraping, the shudder of shifting wings. The hole was not a dead one.
The landing was rough, and the thing might have busted a couple of limbs, but that didn't seem to faze the monster.
An ominous snarling came from the entrance. Clawed fingers, so thin and long they could not have belonged to any human, raked at the edges of the keyhole entrance, pulling the creature's misshapen body through the keyhole, inch by inch, into the cave. This thing was not made for spaces like caves, yet it kept forcing its way in.
As it maneuvered past the keyhole and into the cave, its bones popped audibly, almost as if they were saying, "This space is too small for us!" in protest. Yet the cave was not going to be rid of this thing that did not belong.
Finally, the figure with wings turned, his breath frozen in his lungs.
He saw it in the dim light that was filtering through the shattered entrance.
The face of the hollow was a hideous sight to behold at any distance, but being close to it was truly nightmarish. What had once been a human face was stretched and warped into a grotesque imitation of a grin, full of broken, jagged teeth. Its eyes — or what passed for eyes — were empty black holes that seemed to suck the light out of the already dim corridor. Patches of dried flesh hung from it like old rags, and its wings, though not in very good shape after slamming into the wall, were still an intimidating sight.
It now was crawling, dragging itself forward with slow, jerky movements. Its claws scraped against the stone floor of the cavern, sending out a sound that echoed throughout the space.
Standing figure, frozen in place, with sweat beading on the forehead. Every instinct screaming to him to run — but there was nowhere left to run to.
A few feet away, the hollow paused, its hunched figure filling the tunnel's narrow confines. For a moment, it was nearly motionless, apart from the quick, animal-like jerking of its head.
Then it looked at him.
Those eyes held no intelligence anymore; they held nothing but a terrible, bottomless hunger. A hunger that would not be denied.
The figure with wings pressed his fists together, feeling the blood on his palms from the claws that now dug deeply into his own skin. His wings worked weakly behind him, good perhaps for a desperate defense but useless as a means to fly.
The hollow breathed out a rattle; it was full of rot and the reek of decay.
For what felt like a long, and terrible, moment, neither one of them moved.
Next, gradually, the form lowered into a position—not to charge, but to steady himself. To engage, if it became necessary. If it came to that.
The hollow altered once more, its figure cracking and groaning hideously.
And still, he gazed at it, his heart thumping in his ribcage, blood surging in his eardrums. He would not flee. Not this time.
Out of breath, beaten, and with wounds festering, he faced the monster's vacant stare with a fierce and steady gaze that refused to back down.
Belial observed it closely, his slow and steady breathing accompanying the tension of the moment. The hollow was attempting to rise from the ground, its jerking, spasmodic movements like those of a cat in a death grip.
If it had had any remnants of a vocal cord, it would have been screaming.
Belial drew his battered wings back against his body. With a slow exhale. Without a trace left over, his wings folded against his back and weren't here anymore.
The hollow issued a pitiful snarl, showing off its shattered teeth.
Belial's response was to draw forth the blade that was strapped to his side. The weapon caught the little light that was there, throwing it back, and for an instant, it seemed to be more a part of Belial than inanimate matter like a weapon ought to be.
A cavernous crackle of the sickening kind reverberated through the hollow.
From the very outset, particles of ether began to leak from the dead body; not that you could tell, for they were too small, too pale, and too motionless to give the impression of something alive... or dead, for that matter.
Belial stepped back, and with a quick, practiced motion, wiped the excess blood from his blade. He stared at the floating ether, the familiar temptation now gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.
He understood the dangers. Taking in unrefined ether — especially in such copious amounts — was hazardous. It could warp a fellow, turn him to an inside-out version of himself if he didn't watch out. Yet there he was, facing down all that weariness in his bones, the pain echoed in his wings and muscles... and he was almost unwittingly choosing the ether over all that.
Belial breathed out a deep, tired breath that went all the way to his toes. His shoulders sagged as he took a moment to think through what he was about to do. He could just leave the particles where they were and let them disperse into the nowhere they had come from.
Yet, he refrained.
He had to do it. He couldn't waste energy like this.
Grinding his teeth, he stepped ahead and reached into the mist.
The particles of the ether rushed toward him and sank into his skin like cold piercing needles. They were foreign to him, yet they felt like the foreign energy that had always coursed through him. He was conscious now that he was an empty vessel, but the energy was trying to make him whole again.
It hurt...it really hurt.
Once more, the cavern fell silent.
Belial put away his sword with a quiet snap. He walked to the opening of the cave. Wind blasted from the mountains, trying to snatch away every piece of him it could and ruffling the worn edges of his clothing. His hair—no longer straight, no longer styled—blew behind him in a tumbled, wild cloud that was more amethyst than purple, more violet than blue.
He looked out over the wide, clear-crystal-strewn spread of the peak, his look dark and intense.
"Why did things have to be like this..."