Right in front of his face was an eldritch... and his heart nearly stopped in response.
Instantly, he froze. He couldn't even comprehend what he was seeing, a reality he had refused to believe would come true. Its ovular, egg-shaped eyes that existed as a void; pure black and somehow darker than the forest that surrounded him. Its wicked grin, smiling with bleached teeth that stank of blood and iron.
From his perspective, it almost appeared like a writhing wall of white flesh, slowly careening towards his exact position. Its ribs protruded, its limbs squelched, and within the darkness, could only be described as a discrepancy. A monster.
His nerves frantic, shot to the point of near severance, he flung his arm down to his blade, quickly jolting it out from the sheath and arching back his swing. By now, the beast's size was apparent—both its eyes alone easily rivaling Heath in size and height. Only then could he see them twitch, flicking from side to side within its socket, yet no pupil to distinguish its gaze.
He was prepared to stab one of those eyes, and truth be told, wasn't far off from doing so. The crux of his swing, however, came with far more inertia than he had intended, foot unlocking off the stone as his body tumbled into the ground below.
Jaw smashed into the ground, teeth clicking together in the process. Foot twisting as it desperately tried to regain grip, only to no avail. The front of his blade jutted into the soil, sound of scraping rocks and shooting dirt filling his ears as he tumbled to the bottom of the ravine.
He clenched his eyes, a small tinge of unsettled smut tainting his retinas as a seething pain began to scrape from within. Even through the discomfort, he shakily glared at the beast, a sonic tendril shooting out its backside and firmly wrapping itself around his leg. It didn't take long for him to feel the pain—a hold so strong, it felt as though his entire leg was about to rip off and buckle.
It slowly dragged him against the ground, just before a lift could be felt in his stomach, and his entire body began to be raised. Before the height could defy him, he tugged on his blade handle, a firm yank pulling it from its slumber within the earth.
While overhead, he could see its full body, not far off from a mutant slug, hundreds, if not thousands of tentacle-like appendages wriggling underneath the weight of its body. Even more grotesque was an open wound that tore through its back; guts and flesh fully exposed, its beating heart and inflating lungs fully exposed to air.
Its head lifted against its body, mouth fully agape as Heath was hanged precariously overhead.
Not wasting a second, beginning to feel the tendrils' grip begin to weaken, he pulled his back up, firmly swiping against its limb as blood splattered over his face. Horrifically enough, the blood came in enough droves to form a mini waterfall into its own mouth, of which slammed shut only moments after the ichor met with its tongue.
Heath dropped onto its now-closed teeth, blood still falling from above and coating his entire body in vigorous crimson. He launched himself, spiralling out against the dirt, that of which stuck to the gore like an unholy hybrid of filth.
Somewhere within that carnage, he had foolishly let slip his sword, now lying a few feet away, directly before the beast's path.
Even with the wound, the creature seemed to not care, merely receding its injured limb back underneath the rest of its frame, continuing to slide against the trail and into the ravine below.
Heath could already tell in the back of his mind... he wasn't ready for this. He debated what to do, watching as its hulking frame slithered towards him, blade being enveloped underneath its body.
There was a part of him, a part he had figured he long since suppressed, which admitted it wanted to die. Perhaps, this beast was simply the thing to finally be able to do it.
What he didn't expect, however, was for the beast to slightly pluck against one of the trees as it moved.
Instantly, a flock of perched birds from within erupted from within its brush, a flurry of caws and squeals filling the dark forest. The flutter of their dark wings was apparent, and much to Heath's surprise, the Eldritch took note of it.
In an instant, hundreds of its tentacles wriggled from underneath, shooting like a rocket into the skies above. Ruthlessly, they snatched as many birds as they could, such a squeeze their small bodies exploded in just a matter of seconds.
Feathers and blood rained from the skies, the eldritch once again tilting its head back so as to drop what little remained of their corpses into its gaping maw.
He was a mere few feet away... he could hear the squelching. He could smell the iron.
On occasion, one of the pulled birds was still somehow alive. He could hear their gurgling within the pool of blood—their desperate calls for something or someone to save them. But Heath had already known... it was too late for them.
With a thunderous clap, the beast shut its jaws, teeth grinding together like iron against steel. He could hear it gulp down whatever it had consumed, tendrils once again receding, and the beast once again continuing its journey.
It wasn't all helpless, however. During the massacre, Heath utilized the distraction to stern himself, firmly holding his back against the edge of the ravine's wall, not leaving a gap of air between him and the dirt shelf behind.
In a moment of clarity, he had realised... the beast was blind.
It all clicked in his head- upon first meeting, the beast had never attacked until he made a sound. That's what it relies on to hunt its prey... sound.
Smell was also an important factor, but fortunately for heath, the entire forest within this immediate vicinity was absolutely bathed in blood. Conveniently enough, Heath was absolutely drenched—not just in red, but in dirt stuck over the top, as well.
'Theoretically...' he thought to himself, warily watching as the beast began to slip by his position. 'If I stay completely still and don't make a sound... it will only see me as blood-soaked soil. Nothing more. Nothing less.'
He said that, but even he had his doubts. The ravine was small, and the beast was large. It'd be impossible to let the thing pass without making contact with it. That didn't just mean not moving... it meant not breathing. Not a single twitch. Not a single shiver.
And it was as he thought. As the beast's head slipped by, the writhing flesh was soon to follow, tugging his body into a sickly embrace. The bottom of his legs made contact with its appendages, moving with such force that he nearly thought he'd fall over with their touch.
Its ribs poked into his skin. Its cold body nearly gave him chills.
This continued far longer than Heath had fully expected. In nature, it was a slow beast, though notably slower once Heath needed it not to be. Once its flesh left contact with his own, he waited a few more seconds before giving a desperate yet soft exhale. Never before did he think that the simple act of breathing would be so refreshing. So fulfilling.
He continued to watch it, making sure it was a decent enough distance away before making a careful move towards his blade, slightly pushed into the dirt below from its weight.
As he lifted, his eyes stayed glued to it. He felt terror. He felt rage.
'I should kill it...' he thought to himself, 'I should use my training. I trained for this, so why won't I kill it!?'
He asked, but deep down, he knew the answer. He was scared.
Instead, he lingered a little while longer, watching as the beast slithered off into the distance, leaving a rather notable imprint in the dirt below.
Then, he gave in. He was weak. He was tired. His foot was injured, still from when it twisted off the slope.
He was in no shape to fight... this relieved him.
Letting out a large sigh, he sheathed his blade, wiped off a loose feather that clung to the edge of his shoulder, then once again climbed up the slope.
He already knew his goal, and he wasn't going to turn back now. He needed shelter. He begged for it.