Erannik stands by the crank and lever, bent over with hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. Hearing Verrian's question, he says, "The only other way out is behind that pile of rubble. I don't think we're going that way."
He straightens up, his face red with exertion. "It was some kind of Hunter," he says. "They were created by the Alcaven crown years and years ago to seek out and destroy rival mages. Thought they were all destroyed in the War. Never seen one that was all mottled black like that."
Eanala, the elven woman that arrived with Verrian, pushes her way through the group, arms out to Erannik, who smiles more than a little impudently at her in response. "Didn't lose me y..." he starts to say, reaching out to her in return.
He never finishes what he was about to say.
A lance of deepest, ice-cold black explodes through the pile of rubble, piercing through Erannik's back and out through his chest. He looks down at it, confusion furrowing his weathered face. Slowly, he looks back up, mouth open to say something, an unspoken question in his eyes, when he slumps forward. Like a tree branch waving in a heavy wind, the thing that has impaled Erannik throws his lifeless body against the wall with a sickening crunch, and he slides to the floor in a heap. It recedes back through the rubble, rocks resettling and clattering to the ground as it does.
"You cannot run fast enough or far enough, little chickies," the voice says, a low, fierce growl that echoes in the corridor. "If not this night, then another. We will be together."
