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Red Nail · #9 (**permalink**) 06-02-2008

In the water Gray Scale hunted his quarry with a predator’s patience and grace. He stayed in his own form for the hunt, preferring it almost to forms that would have made the chase easier, but sometimes the chase was the whole point of the hunt. The target of his aggression was one of the bloated eel fish that inhabited the bog exclusively. Normally a fish of this size would have had a tough time maneuvering through the dense water, however the mucus that these strange creatures exuded allowed them to move with speed and grace. If fact the mucus had a strange lemony tang to it that Gray Scale relished.

Four of his heads snapped around the fish, driving it before him and wearing it down from exertion. Gray’s other heads stayed poised to strike when it would tire as all the others he’d hunted did. The tongues of these heads flicked out, tasting the mucus trail in the water as well as the creature’s fear. In one moment Gray Scale struck with all three heads. As the bloated thing struggled his other heads joined in and each tore off a mouthful with plenty of meat left over, such was the girth of the creature.

As the blood, meat, and mucus washed down his throats Gray rumbled in pleasure. It was moments like these, when he sank down to his primal beginnings that the compulsion didn’t bother him so much. He sometimes thought that it helped him keep sane when the strongest urges came over him.

With his instincts still sharp he noticed something new probing into his bog. It was had to see in the water, but it was there all the same. He grabbed onto the carcass with his forelegs and broke the water’s surface to see exactly who or what this new intruder was. He didn’t see anything at first but when the shot rang out and one of his heads slumped down, lifeless, bullet lodged in the brain. He let go of his meal in surprise and turned to face his attacker in anger. His six active heads let loose a trumpeting roar that was cut short by the stab of a large blade.

Out of reflex Gray Scale backed away from the armed men and swept at them defensively with his claws. One head down and black bile pouring from his chest wound, Gray Scale forced himself into a calmer state lest he lose his concentration and fall prey to another hidden attacker.

His racing minds, burdened by the loss of one, before he settled on his usual tactic for defending his home. He backed far enough into the water so that they’d either have to trudge through the clinging mud on the shore and the water beyond to get to him. It also protected him from another leaping attack from the air, and even the most well trained fighter had trouble dodge multiple attacks while airborne. This buffer would also give him the chance he needed to heal properly. Already the wound was closing on his chest and in a few minutes his fallen head would come to life again. He just needed time.

“So,” he bellowed, recognizing Crugeon and Phoogli among their number, “You’ve come to kill me! This curse may addle my mind, but I will not go easily or gently into the folds of death. No one can force me from this land against my will. I have persevered against countless foes and the compulsion and I will persevere against you. Come test thy mettle against me!”