Prowlers of the Dungeon

            My sister always keeps her promises. Sure enough, there were mortals in the depths. I screeched, though they could not hear me - and the echoes revealed them to me. That is when I saw the crucifix. No, I heard the cross. Echolocation. The sacred symbol of their moral martyr. Their messiah. And I dare not open my eyes, not with that blinding torchlight. I clung to the wall, letting them think I was just another statue.

            Their beliefs have power over me. I fear their ankhs and mantras. However, crucifixes strike a personal chord with me. Golgotha is not a pretty place. I have been there. I have been up on a tee. I was mortal once. No longer.

            They left me. The loud man with the flamberge led them further down the main hall. That was a naive choice, though they did not know the layout of my crypt. They knew not where the vestigal treasures were left. There was a cave-in beyond them, and a serpent's nest. I could hear the rattling tails in the distance.

            I veered into an alcove, aloft on the still air. Darkness caressed me once more, and I opened my eyes. Before me, were six dead men.

            The paved stone fell into the dirt, and met with cobwebbed stalagmites and stalactites. A large puddle, where I bathed, and a trickling stream. It smelled deliciously rank.

            The bodies were decaying nicely. Maggots crawled upon them, and the slimy flesh was boasting a smell fiercer than my bathing waters.

            "Your servitude is due," I intoned.

            The six men rose. A wooden leg. Two eye patches. Four scimitars. A crossbow. Three bucklers. A hook. Two sets of leather armour. One chain-mail halflet. A rusty plated corselet. A sickle. They would suffice. They would crumble before the brawn and holiness of the living that lurked our island. However, I did not want to kill them just yet.

            This was a game. This was our game.

            Fear was my first goal. Scare them. Antagonize them. Let them think they have no hope of escaping, with whatever glory and wealth they seek to steal from us.

            They are trespassing. I am a prowler.


The End

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