Bhut

Wind wrapped around my spear effortlessly as it pulled me into the sky. Magic I had learned so long ago was mere muscle memory now, a flick of the wrist, a twist of the hand. In times gone it was a thing I found myself hardpressed to learn, and remember, but now? Well, now it was a part of me, just as my prey was.

I had taken in the blood - their blood. Donned scales of steel and bone - their scales. My spear tasted the ether of the great unmaking, and bore it into battle with every jump. I was to be feared, and they would know my name.

It comes closer now as the dawn flits through the woodland below. It comes closer now as the snowcaps grow large and glisten in their melt. It comes closer now, fangs of venom drip like the early dew, wings fill the sky like a burial shroud. A shroud built for two.

Clash! We pass through each other, my spear bloodless, its talons empty. I hear voices from below, a fire, a group, their mirth rising up on lullabye foregin and new.

“Bhut!” They shout.

“Bhut,” they echo with glee.

Do they shout for me?