The ghoul is not happy.

He has seen them, the new ones, beings who dare to intrude in his haven. They stride among the pools and corpses, laughing and bold, as if they belong. Dancing and stalking, even daring to step away from the main path, venturing further and further into a land that does not welcome the living. Fools, arrogant idiots, certain of their own immortality, paying no mind to the bloated bodies of those who came before. Even the shrieking, moaning, snarling warnings are ignored, falling on deaf ears, screams treated as silence.

He knows this flood of interlopers is caused by the dark.

At first, when the sun did not rise, he knew fear. Not of the darkness itself, for he is a ghoul and loves the night, but for the implications of unending blackness. Ragnarok, he remembers his mother whispering, telling tales to her unholy son. First would come winter, and then would come the end. And here it was, bitter cold Frostfall, and now the great wolves Hati and Skoll had eaten the sun and moon. He knew the world was ending, and he had trembled.

Yet, time passed, and nothing happened. The world remained, though neither sun nor moon returned, and it seemed all was well. So he calmed, resumed haunting the marsh and 'befriending' the dead, collecting them and speaking stories until his voice wore out. Things had been alright, normal.

Until them.

He hates them, in way, for waltzing into his home so brashly. For claiming to belong among the dead, when they don't, aren't monsters and never will be, not the way he is. Perhaps they are cruel, perhaps they kill for fun, but they are not abominations, not monters, not really. They walk the land of the undead, and they haven't the right.

So, tonight he creates new stories, stories of the boy son of a witch who resides among cadavers and skeletons, wild and territorial, driving away the living who wander into his midnight realm of murky pools and massive trees hung with moss.

The ghoul will watch no longer.

It is time to act.

Look down, the ground below is crumbling
Look up, the stars are all exploding
I’ve wandered too far... was the first thing that flashed through her uneasy mind when after a long trudge south through the slippery white sands of the beach, her hooves struck a more solid, soil loam. She was unused to such an awkward and primitive means of travel, her knees were stiff and aching, and her pace had slowed rather dramatically, hindered by the difficult nature of the terrain. Not so long ago, Africa would have soared far beyond the land where those unadorned, unblessed ground dwellers hobbled about. But now, she was one of them- ungifted and forced to abide by the unflattering laws of gravity herself.

No answer came from the bird that did sail far above her bobbing head through the hold of night’s enduring, smothering shadow. There was still only weak and often misconstrued coherence between them, with no real ability communicate while their bond was still gripped with immaturity. Theirs was a silent barter of passions; pure, organic emotion that spilled from one heart, through into the other. Understanding was growing slowly and steadily already though, and as such, Africa found an easy friend in Silas. Perhaps one closer than any of her own kind, that she had ever encountered. So too did his unrelenting loyalty and dependability strengthen her appreciation. Rarely, were Zephyr and Pegasus not in one another’s company.

The mare found it difficult to sit, stagnant within the pit of her desert homeland these days. While the Throat’s borders did offer mild peace while the darkness lasted, persistent and nagging guilt forced her into relative isolation for long stints at a time. It was difficult to bathe in the gullible association of those who offered her unwavering clemency- despite, all her wrongs which now rusted the chain-link bonds between them. Her mind, her heart and her still reeling emotion were a conflicted cacophony, and always the young Pegasus was restless and torn.
So beneath the concealment of shadow; though she didn't for one second presume that the increased patrols would have missed her, Africa had slipped between the half-made wall to the west of the oasis, and journeyed quietly in that direction.

Silas was a creature of the night, quite unlike the one-winged horse who trailed half-blinded beneath. Though he could not speak to her of all that he saw; of the shifting landscape, when the shoreline gave way to the foggy choke-hold of quagmire, he knew that while his heart was calm, Africa too would keep steady. It was a heavy responsibility he shouldered so tirelessly. Her reliance was exclusive, and it was absolute. He was the balance of her skewed mental health, and the young bird bore that duty with fearless devotion.

Africa could smell the change of scene. Only the stupid or the dying could have missed such a sudden difference in air quality. All at once the stench of fetid mud; of mould and decay filled her fluttering nostrils, and she paused mid-stride, turning an ear to survey that which she did not easily see. Some time ago, the trees whose trunks were aglow with warmth and magic had been left behind, and Africa figured as she stepped forward again through utter blackness that she was a long way from home; from all that was familiar, and perhaps in some perverse sense, from all that meant safety.
All the comforts and security of home had been lost that night when her ghost white herd-sister had betrayed her confidence, leading her into the pit of hungry, angry lions for nothing more than a foolish joke. So much had changed that night long ago. Perhaps she would never be the same again.

He knows of her presence almost as soon as she steps foot in the marsh, the normally loud inhabitants quieting as she passes, no doubt watching her in hopes of finding a meal. He follows the silences, knowing that her scent will be of little help to him, not with the harsh reek of rotting flesh flooding his nose. She has chosen a particularly bad place tonight, a small trail meandering from the main path, thick with carpet bogs and ending abruptly in a large mass of something like quicksand. Does she know of the danger? He doubts it, holding tightly to the belief that only he is familiar with the dangerous terrain, that he alone can navigate in this blackness with no fear of the treacherous ground. He is the ghoul, and this murky Underworld knows him, will not steal away the life of a corpse son.

He wonders if she will die before he can reach her, dragged under the earth to rest with the countless others who gambled with their lives here. He hopes not, hopes that she will be aware enough to keep from plunging into a pool, for now anyway. Once he arrives she may die however she wishes, so long as he can watch, can stand and listen to the angel chorus of her last gasping breaths. It will be beautiful, he knows, and maybe he will keep her, drag pieces of bone and flesh back to his lair, another member of his captive audience, a friend who will never ever leave.

Finally he finds her, slow gait betraying weakness to his pitiless eyes, and he allows his great tail to lash in delight. She will be easy prey, tired or injured or both, and probably close to blind in this eternal night. Even his vision is affected, making it difficult for him to see much beyond shapes. But she is moving, and that is enough for him, each step helping him to see exactly where she is. In his confidence, he decides to play, to force her into a game of terror. She might even run, he thinks, smiling to himself. Then he can chase her, let her know exactly what happens to those who trespass where they are not wanted.

As silently as he can he steps from his hiding place, waiting until he is on the trail behind her before purposefully splashing one hoof in the murky water, skimming his tail over the surface to mimic the sound of something swimming, rising from dark depths in search of food. Then a half rear, bringing his weight back down with a dull thump. Sounds, he knows, can be much worse that anything else, causing the mind to race with imagined horrors.

And, of course, if she turns around he will be there, a flesh-and-blood monster, cruel and merciless.

In the darkness, the ghoul laughs.

Look down, the ground below is crumbling
Look up, the stars are all exploding
Reckless and rash, the dapple grey mare slid silently atop the firm ridge of narrow pathway, her fractured heart pulsing with hopelessness that was echoed by the sloppy drag of her stride. To either side of her, sparse wiry tufts of sour grass and cattails wilted without the nurse of nourishing sunlight, clinging tightly as their purchase fell steeply into the murky glint of the surrounding stagnant cesspools. Africa was lost in oblivion, her sensibility unable to claw through the mess of thoughts and painful memories which fouled her soul so entirely.

Again she paused as the twitch of her wary ear caught hint of flickering movement nearby; the swish of a tail perhaps, or grass swaying in a breeze. For a second, her consciousness was roused from the gloomy pit of her misery, and pale eyes searched the darkness for the presence of another. It did not occur to her though, that the wind had dulled quite significantly when the air had become so sullied, nor that the only sound littering the unfamiliar area was the rush of her breath, and the muffled lonely trudge of her hooves. An eerie chill tingled through her motionless body, and she glanced upwards to find the shadowy blur of Silas fluttering downwards.

He too had seen the movement, though only as a sudden flash through the corner of his violet gaze. Without the will to part from Africa for even the briefest of moments, the Zephyr could not affirm what creature was lurking in the darkness; whether even if it was as insignificant as a slimy toad or hunting owl. Their company was perhaps in its element, and as such, its whereabouts remained well concealed; obscured from the unwitting tourists who were dusted red with desert sands. Cautiously, he scanned the gnarled, crusty branches of the marsh-trees nearest to his fragile bonded. Beyond them lay a muddle of noose-like vines, tangled together to form something similar to a spider’s sticky web, waiting to snare the unsuspecting victim who fumbled to close. They were draped all throughout the thick canopy of tough, browning leaves, long sharp thorns breaking their lazy lines.

Silas drew a long breath as the mare began to walk again; she was ignorant of the intertwining network of swamp channels flanking their passage he thought, and he had no means to warn her. The apprehension did spill through her to some degree, but to avoid provoking her vulnerable condition into frenzied flight, the bird held his composure diligently. The air was repulsive down here where the winds did not churn, pungent and uninviting. It took the remainder of his willpower to remain perched upon her withers within it all.

There was an unambiguous splash behind them; a fish, a frog? No something far larger, perhaps whirling just below the surface.

The young Zephyr’s balance skewed as Africa startled and spun on the spot; but the path was too narrow to accommodate such manoeuvring, and her knees buckled as her hooves lost their traction, sliding down into the dark icy water with a crash. With undulating forelegs, the frightened mare jerked her weight repeatedly upwards, her only wing opened in a vain attempt to stabilize, but she kept slipping back down, and the bridge crumbled away as she thrashed. Silas’s guttural cry echoed through the thin air as he hovered just above her, shaken from his roost, and his bonded’s struggle was interrupted when the ominous profile of a monster far larger than herself extended its form to her right- just behind where she had been travelling.

The Zephyr’s angry screech peeled around them again, and while Africa’s eyes failed to identify the stallion, as that, Silas’s keen night-vision did. Still there was no way he could sooth the mare, their eyes were not yet bound; they were not quite one.

Africa bounced away from it in an instant of shock horror, and away from the safety of the trail. The bog sucked hungrily at the press of her awkward, uncomfortable gait as she struggled forward, leaping and lunging through the difficult terrain. Waiting vines welcomed her into their midst, snagging around her pumping neck viciously in tight embrace, so that she could not pass through. Silas scowled furiously at the half-lifted stallion, but the gesture was futile as he lingered through the darkness beyond the horse’s reach. Swiftly he wheeled around to pursue the blind, short-lived dash of the mare, and slipping between her bindings with cutting talons and a snapping hooked beak, he began to free her sinking frame.