Jynne propped his chin onto the back of his hands and peered down at the elves and Snowmen. He was curled like a snake upon a solid ledge of rock. There was about a half inch distance between him and the top of the cave.
A spider crawled down his ankle, but he barely noticed the tickling of its legs as it minced upon his blotchy skin. A ghosted wind brushed his hollow cheek. His lips curled into a sneer.
Above him the cave shuddered, and a chunk of rock hurtled from a ledge. It struck the elf wench, causing her to stumble. His eyes narrowed. The Snowmen in front of them stopped, drew closer together, fidgeted together, muttering together.
The caves shuddered. The restless spirits of their dead had gathered together, warning the intruders back. Never trust that the dead were fully dead. They could surprise with their ever remaining presence. For the dead never truly left. There was always a bleached, yellowed bone crumbling in the dirt, a wasted spirit. A prophecy that the same fate awaited all witless mortals.
They were afraid of these caves. Very afraid. The caves were treacherous. He smiled.
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