[littlemanpoet]

"Thump."

It was soft and echoed. The narrative insisted it. One cannot disagree with the narrative. Elempí chose not to. He was too intent on going with the flow as long as the flow meant a happy Panakeia that he was what was left of Anakron.

Wolves howled in the distance. The not so distant distance.

Elempí took a turn, to the left. Which was for the worst. Because it faced the crypt. The swordsman led the way, which was just as well as far as Elempí was concerned. He tried to make sure that he was as close as he could be to Panakeia, preferably in front of her, or at least by her side. So it was with (only) mild chagrin that he found himself following her.

Wolves continued to howl in the distance. The not so distant distance. Quite near, actually.

The swordsman yelled. Another swordsman, or so Elempí assumed, for swordsmen were wont to yell in the midst of battle - and this sounded bloodcurdling and ferocious enough to be a battle cry.

But their cries didn't drown out the howling wolves in the distance. The not so distant distance. Quite near, actually. In fact, Elempí felt a very unwelcome tap on his shoulder. How did I end up behind everybody else? He turned, the hair on his neck rising, and looked at a very unpleasant maw that was opening wider.

"Lûgnût, don't yawn so close to me. Your breath stinks. And the wind of it raises the hair on my neck. What do you want, anyway?"

"Sorry. But I'm scared."

"Oh for cryin'-"

The wolves howled. The swordsman battlecried. But no swords clashed. Elempí began to wonder if they were just putting on a show of courage. At least it was free.