SHANEGORMLEY

He lowered his shield and carefully placed it on the ground beside him. With his left hand he opened a well-used leather pouch that was tied to his waist. From within the pouch he withdrew a small wilted plant. Its limp leaves were deep green with large bruised patches. The petals that had survived their unforgiving journey were a delicate lilac. With the utmost care the large heavy hand of the hunter lifted the precious flower gently onto the shield. Having ensured the flower was safely concealed from the spirited spring winds he began to paw at the ground before him. His hands worked in unison to sweep the remnants of last year’s decaying foliage from his wake.

A low, deep grumble began to fill the air. It churned bitterly with each bluster creating an irregular tempo that undulated in rhythm with the wind. Gradually it permeated the clearing where the hunter was now digging furiously, unperturbed by the strange noise. His fists bit hard into the dirt. Clumps of soil flew from the ground as if fleeing for the life it had never been bestowed. The low grumble had now reached an agonizing crescendo, causing the hunter to momentarily raise his head before once more continuing his onslaught on the ground before him. From the opposite side of clearing emerged a short, hairy man who was grunting loudly. His face was covered in a thick matted nest of black hair. Two beady crow eyes peered from the entangled mess. His limbs seemed to be out of proportion to his stubby half-torso. His arms seemed little more than two bulging biceps, devoid of elbows with hands perched at the end. His legs were short yet with an abnormal girth, giving him the appearance of a stout block of a man. His hair emphasised his lack of height. It was thick with grease which caused it to form tight ringlets that sprang in a myriad of directions; however, the constant law of gravity seemed to hold particular sway over each strand of hair. They hung like ragged iron curtains attached to his head, refusing to move with each of his bodies jerky movements.

More peculiar than this dwarf’s appearance was the burden he carried. Dangling lifelessly in his arms was the frame of a beautiful, pale skinned woman. Cheeks that had no doubt once shone garnet red were now ashen and drawn. Her eyes lolled in her head – icy and grey. Her elegant limbs dragged painfully across the floor. The hunter avoided looking at her at all costs. The dwarf carrying her showed no emotion on his face, at least none that could pierce his fierce bristles; yet he continued to groan uneasily until he had placed the corpse in front of the hunter. Without a word he squatted beside the hunter and also began to hack at the dirt with his bare hands – evidently they had no tools with them with which to dig a grave.

The sun was low in the sky, casting long malformed shadows before either stopped their arduous digging. Straining for breath the dwarf, being the shorter of the two by some distance, now came to realise that the hole was several inches deeper than he was tall. He turned to his companion who was still digging furiously and rested one of his dirty hands on his shoulder. The hunter who was hunched over began to shake uncontrollably, rocking forward and back on the balls of his feet as he did so. The dwarf patted him firmly again and in the familiar deep tone grunted “done”. The hunter let out a long piercing wail, before shrieking in a series of irregular outbursts. Fearing his companion to be overcome with grief the dwarf manoeuvred to face him. As he did so he realised that the hunter was not crying, but cackling manically. A possessed look had filled his face. His usual friendly features were sickeningly contorted. Eyebrows jutted from his skull like devil horns; the furrows of his brow were twisted wickedly giving his forehead the look of a volcanic floor erupting with bile and hatred. His mouth was curved into an unnatural grin. Lips were no more than a blood red line, illuminating rows of serrated teeth covered in frothing saliva. The eye that usually shone orange had curdled blood red. At the sight of his friend in such a crazed state the dwarf grumbled thunderously before unceremoniously heaving himself from the grave. He lay for several moments panting into the forest floor, doing nothing more than surveying an ant with his tiny button eyes as his friend continued to howl in anguish. As he began to lift himself to his feet a hand appeared, grasped at the hem of his tunic and pulled him upright in one fluid motion. As this happened the familiar placid tone of Erituv crooned, “Grief affects us all in different ways”’.

As was Erituv’s habit he had appeared with the last of the dazzling sunset smouldering behind his slender frame. Silhouetted by the crimson light he appeared to radiate a warm glow. He was tall and thin; little more could be discerned of his appearance from this vantage point. Being an Elf he could effortlessly avoid being seen all together if he so wished. “I am sorry to be so late Otemion”, said Erituv in his toneless voice. Brushing remnants of soil from his tunic the dwarf paused briefly and cocked his head on one side in deep contemplation. Continuing to methodically brush his tunic the dwarf nodded once, before adding a small grunt for good measure. As he nodded the dwarf’s black globule eyes oscillated toward the arresting body that lay beside the grave. His eyes swelled like droplets of ink caught on an impermeable surface. Noticing this Erituv turned to examine the body himself. He emitted a long, sad sigh at the sight of the forlorn figure. Closing his eyes as though to shield the pain he murmured, “Tyanis was our charge, without her, all hope is lost”. The silence that ensued was only broken by the occasional languid scream that arose from the grave.