Exploring

The cave went deep within the mountain like a yawning mouth on the raw rock, and Grendel stood right at its opening, peeking inside suspiciously. There had to be some trick to this. Places where the light didn’t reach usually meant a lot of trouble. He knew that too well. From the depths came the strangest little noises, the smell of feces and urine and other unpleasant things. But there was also the delicious stench of decay. And he swore he could hear water.

Curiosity won over. Why not, he thought, there might be good eating down there.

As cautiously as he could the squamataur stepped inside the grey entrance and began advancing to the depths, groping his way down the dark. Everything was cramped and rough and uncomfortable, but there was little need to worry; all he had to do was to follow that mix of scents. Go find that source, eat it, and then climb back. Simple as that, there would be no trouble. A couple times he felt something soft in the walls, and in the pangs of hunger he would rip it off and chew it. Both times he ended up spitting the morsels back in disgust. His stomach was not one for fungi. Only meat would do.

Grendel’s eyes soon adjusted to the blackness, and to his surprise the cave wasn’t nearly as deep as he had imagined. The narrow tunnel became broader and broader, and after a while it opened into a large damp area, dotted here and there by countless stalactites and stalagmites and natural rock formations. Taking up a good chunk of it was what seemed like an underground lake, still and crystal-clear, faintly illuminating the cave with a bright blue glow and casting beautiful rippling patterns on the ceiling. And what was in the ceiling certainly explained the noises and smell of dung. A whole colony of small banshees, clinging to the rock in a sort of carpet made of membranous wings and big ears and matted fur. They were all asleep, mothers and siblings and daughters cluttered together. It wouldn’t be convenient to disturb them, the squamataur thought. He better tread with care.

He looked down at the source of the carrion smell, and promptly groaned. It had turned out to be nothing but small discarded bones, surely what the banshees had left from their meals. Dusty, splintered, picked clean, not even the tiniest amount of marrow left in them.

This is what he had gone here for? Just scraps? Grendel felt like he wanted to punch something. He knew this was a bad idea! When was he going to stop being so dumb?

A ruffled murmur echoed from above. He really had to quit being noisy.

With a low growl the squamataur turned his attention to the lake in front of him, quietly lumbering to the shimmering edge. Maybe there would be some fish or shrimp in there that he could catch, at least with that this little trip wouldn’t feel so pointless.

But as he inspected the haunting mirror that was the surface of the water, he found it strangely empty. There were slimy algae at the bottom, yes, but nothing actually seemed to move down there. How come..?

Next thing he knew the water swelled up like jelly and jumped at his face.

No, it was a chlaena! Massive and gelatinous and almost amorphous she was, untold colours rippling and flashing in maddening succession all over her skin. Contorting and stretching and twisting as her long tentacles threw themselves to Grendel, squeezing and gripping and smothering him before he had a chance to react. Disturbing narrow eyes hiding under kelp-like hair, staring hungrily at the surprised squamataur. In all likelihood she must have arrived via the underground water currents, found herself with no big prey to devour and decided Grendel would work nicely. It mattered little that he was slightly bigger, she was starving and her stomach would be filled.

But she didn’t expect her chosen prey to fight back so ferociously. Tentacles were bitten off their seams, eyes were gouged out. Blood and ink flowed and mingled together. She tried to return to the water, and gore-stained hands pulled her back. A sound not unlike snapping rubber, a hideous agonizing screech, and she was ripped in half. The lake grew red as her entrails spilled out.

Grendel tossed the mangled remains, his body splattered here and there with ink and vital fluids not his own. With the adrenaline still pumping through his veins he let out a roar, loud and deafening. Victory was his.

And almost instantly, a whole cacophony of screams drowned it. The banshees had been awakened by the struggle and had watched the whole thing. Now the sight of the scarred, gore-stained behemoth bellowing out his fury straight at them had sent them in genuine fear. The whole colony was this cloud of frenzied screams and flapping wings, yelling and wailing and screeching in their terror, flying everywhere around the ceiling without reason of any kind.

That was more than the squamataur was willing to handle. In a hurry he picked up as much of the chlaena’s torn carcass as he could then stormed upwards to the cave entrance, followed by the torrent of frenzied bat-women seeking a way out.

Once again he was out in the valley, trying to catch his breath and squinting as his eyes got used to the light again. The mountains were still there, foggy and distant with the great sea of dark green leaves at their base. The sun could be barely seen behind the great grey clouds of the afternoon. The banshees, in the meantime, were still hurtling out of the cave mouth behind him, and the squamataur watched them pour and pour until the whole colony lost itself in the low forest, their screeches joining the usual sounds of the mountain ranges.

Grendel sighed, slightly annoyed, and brought a severed tentacle to his mouth. After all something good had come out of the whole mess.

Next time, though, he was throwing a boulder first.