It must have been at least at quarter of a mile before Narach allowed to a stop and caught his breath. Heaving in exhaustion, he didn't even bother to take in the dim and damp tunnel in which he now stood. In and out, he breathed the dank air in, unable to ignore the foul taste but putting up with it for the time.
Finally regaining some degree of his senses, the young skirmisher straightened his back and took in his surroundings for as much as the lamp would reveal. For a moment, he marveled at how the flame had remained lit throughout his jostling sprint, although he was not ultimately very surprised. The candlewick was small to begin with, and the oilskin shades were of remarkably good make. Despite this, the light did not reveal much, and if there were anything more than perhaps a spear's reach ahead, it would have been totally concealed to poor Narach. The thick air of the cave obscured much, and all about, he could see little bits of fog and smog floating lazily in the haze.
Since his reckless, thoughtless, but not fearless, rush into the pit of the Ghlaírí, Narach had run in nearly a perfectly straight line. No footings stalled his progress, although he tripped once when the ground took a sudden decline of about a knee's height. Nor was there any real variation in the dimensions of the tunnel, and to his thanks, Narach saw that the ceiling was only about two or three hand spans above his head. To his dismay, however, he was more than close enough to behold the thick mold and decay that grew in large patches like the last remaining patches of thick fur upon a wild and mange-ridden hound. Twisting his face in disgust, Narach suddenly realized a curious aspect of the cave as he waved the lamp about him to search about his feet and above his head. Not a single pest or bat could be found. No nests were built to hang from the ceiling, and no piles of droppings lay rotting upon the dank floor. Holding his breath, no echo from beyond our ahead could be heard. No sound at all, except for the occasional popping off the lamp's flame.
It was only then, deep within the lake of the Ghlaírí that the boy truly came to understand the situation his brashness had put him in. Had it been altruism? Loyalty? Ambition? Stupidity? A combination of many things? Perhaps. When he stood terrified among the ranks of the second squad as the cries of Rhíad rang up, all the boy could think of was the horrible danger that the chieftain's daughter must be in, and what unjust fate she was doomed to come to. Fears of pain and death overcame him, thoughts of the ravenous monster jumping from the cave and feasting upon the company one by one. Thoughts of what might befall Rhíad first if none were to intervene.
The lady Rhíad! Narach suddenly realized that, in his dizziness of sprinting, the purpose of his mission had left his mind. Almost without considering his actions, Narach bent and broke to a run, but had only gone perhaps three steps when his thoughts of the danger thought back against his mindless duty. In one hand, he had the only source of light he was bound to find in such a place, and in the other, he held a gilded sword hardly fit for battle, much less against a creature of strange and unknown magics. He looked at the petty thing. Marvelous it was, but it was a work of art and not for the art of fighting. To his relief, the thing was at least sharp when he tested it's edge against a fingernail.
“Well then,” he muttered to himself, “I suppose there's no choice but to go on to where the Ghlaírí prowls. I can't return without the lady Rhíad so long as I've taken this thing. I might be whipped as a thief.” Forcing a chuckle, mirthless as it was, to lighten his heavy heart, he put forth an effort to not think of his meager kit and simple keep moving onward.
The effort, it turned out, was ultimately a failure, if a well-intentioned one. Every few steps, Narach absentmindedly looked down to re-examine his concerning lack of proper armaments, half in regret and half in reconsideration.
As Narach descended deeper in the tunnel, he began to perceive a faint noise off in the distance ahead. Almost in the same instant that the quiet chirping came to his ears, he came to a sudden stop, and he would have silenced his bearing heart is such a thing could be done. Through his peeled ears, he stained to hear the sound again, but just as quickly as it began, it had ceased. A trick of the mind? he wondered. Slowly, he resumed his place once again, but kept his feet in a fox-step and his ears at the fullest attention.
Sure enough, not long after, the sound returned once again, only this time, Narach had been ready. Keeping the fox-steps, he crept forth in near-silence. Sure enough, the tone of a distant laughter became clear as the echoes bounced through the stone corridor. The chills returned, but he dated not show his back to whatever made such an awful display. Despite the heavy force that urged him to flee back to whence he came, Narach proceeded forth in total silence. Each step was made so light that were he still outside the cave and atop the dead grass, not even the driest glade would have cracked underfoot.
For once. Narach felt some gratitude for his thin frame, for what he lacked in brawn and bulk, there was swiftness and stealth in ready supply. The trade-off was so great, in fact, that quite the argument as to his merit had been had when he came up first in the initiate's dueling competition during the games of this past Leafrise. Naturally, those big-boned and thick-armed boys he had jumped from and scored points against as quick as a bolt of lightning had been the primary objectors to his victory. Even some of the veterans had a few angry things to say, but in the end, Narach was allowed to keep his victory, however unsportsmanly it's acquisition might have been.
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Needless to say, his speed had likewise been a fair gift after the games, when those in second and third had chased him with sticks to knock him down from where he stood at first.
As Narach proceeded onward, the sound of laughter did not soon cease. At first, he tried to consider the more uplifting fact that the screams of Rhíad did not join in the terrible symphony. However, when he found that such an idea only have him the suspicion that the cause of such an absence might imply some horrible fate, his heart pounded ever quicker, and his steps quickened to match.
By his wild guess, he had gone on for nearly half a mile when a soft but slowly wavering glow began to appear upon the walls of the cave, some distance ahead. Stopping to examine the sight from afar, Narach saw that the tunnel made a sudden turn off to the left, whereupon the flickering light came from. The grim laughter had stopped, but in it's place, Narach now heard the clear signs of movement. A faint scraping rattled out from down the tunnel, like two stones as they are rubbed against each other.
Gingerly, Narach crept forward, holding the sword out in a deep guard. He debated leaving the lamp on the ground before proceeding to the already-lit area, but quickly disregarded the idea. Unless he were to come across Rhíad before the Ghlaírí, sneaking by would be almost a pointless endeavor. One way or the other, he would come face to face with the monster, unless he were suddenly come to some rare luck. With a place that a turtle would have sped past, Narach made his way to the turn off the tunnel.
His heart nearly burst against his chest as he approached the corner. So close to it now, Narach could see the cave's walls and floors in much greater detail, and to his unease, noticed that the heavy boot prints of Rómeas were not the only ones that made impressions in the dirty ground.
Of the many footprints that went further into the cave, so very few went out. Some were large, others small. Some strode, others crawled.
When Narach looked up and noticed the great claw marks scratched against the stone walls, he wished that he had kept his head down. The deep wounds inflicted upon the stone tempered his anxieties not at all, and neither did the sudden end to some footsteps as they then turned to drag marks, leaving further back into the depths.
Finally, the turning of the tunnel was within just a few steps. Standing frozen there, Narach felt his body grow heavy with dread. To step forward was like attempting to walk through mud, and yet to turn back seemed like kicking up one's feet and letting a cool stream carry him along it's gentle flow. He looked down once more at the doomed footprints in the ancient dirt. Had such a feeling been at their minds? He had no doubt that it had been quite the case.
The fear of what lay ahead chilled him, but the enemy behind faces a target with no sword to oppose him. Trembling, Narach stepped forward and made the turn.
Not a fathom beyond the bend in the tunnel, the walls opened up to a great cavern, so vast that neither the ceiling nor the that walls could be seen. A single fire burnt in the chamber's center, high and blazing, yet producing little smoke. Though it threw it's light in all directions, great shadows did not fear it's reach. Like tendrils from a beast lurking hidden in the dark, the shadows danced their ways into the light. Deep, dark, and sharp as a needle.
In the midst of it all were two things that caught Narach's gaze and held it tightly. To the left of the fire was arranged a bed of leaves, green and springy. Piled high and yet packed tightly, it formed quite the fair bed for it's unwilling occupant.
There she was, laying upon the bed of leaves. The lady Rhíad, daughter of Díschen the Beige and Creich the chieftain of Doraí's tribes. That is to say, she was laid there, for a heavy array of vines and thorns held her firmly down. Narach shuddered at the thought of what injury the thorns might inflict upon her if she were to attempt to sit upright. He could not tell whether she was awake or asleep, though he doubted any could fall to peaceful rest by her own comfort in this foul place. She made no significant movements, though Narach expected as much, but the bones were loose enough to allow for the subtle rise and fall as she drew in breath. Narach felt a wave of embarrassment as he came to notice that her captor had apparently taken the chance to redress Rhíad in clothing of it's own make. Apart from a single wreath of thorns, blooms, moss, and mold placed atop her head, she had no clothing upon her.
Being that the bed upon which Rhíad was kept was closer to the crevice from which Narach peeled, it was that sight which he beheld first. The great fire illuminated her, but the sight came at the cost of his night vision. Only after he had looked past her for a short while did he realize the other structure, further away and half-cloaked in the twisting shadows.
Unseen when his eyes did not seek it out, and yet illusory even when he beheld it in the center of his vision, was built a great throne. An ancient metal was it's foundation, long gone to rust and forsaking any sign of what form it once took. All that remained were the red and grimy lumps grown foully like a corpse gone to rot. Jutting up, as though forced down into the old cracks of the ruined metal were thick towers of bone. Stacked, wickered, woven, and staggered, long leg one's and ribs made the cradle and backing of the demonic chair.
Even bone was cracked and withered with age. How old even the youngest of them might be, Narach dared not guess. Dirt and muck had long since stained and destroyed whatever pale luster the bones might have once possessed. Sticking upwards like dead stalks of corn, no uniform design or pattern was made in their placement, but that placement was undeniably deliberate. No care for beauty existed in the grim adornments of the throne, and in the place where it should have been lived instead a pointed distaste of beauty and love of the hideous.
That dread throne was not built as a throne, but as a mound. A pile of trophies and treasures collected from morbid conquest and greedy malice. Dried blood speed through the ancient cracks of the bones and pooled in the gruesome depressions that time had wounded into the metal base. A throne in name only. A throne named only by the most depraved. Upon that throne sat its sole occupant.
The Ghlaírí, sitting upon the precipice of the doors of fate, raised a hand and beckoned Narach to approach.