Bonesplinter Ravine who thought she was a nightingale

like anubis prowls the underworld, scarab prowls the dark corners of the veined cavern, lapis lazuli gaze following the golden veins with a greedy curiosity. he moves chunk of wallrock that has fallen loose from the cavern's walls, edges smoothed by the years of trickling rainwater that no doubt eroded it away from the rockbed. in the ravine, scarab does not feel the keen absence of company. the ghosts of this place dwell in every shadow, in every whisper of wind thru the cavern, in every stirring breath of dank, musty cavern air that he takes. he does not fear the dead. cannot. not when he has nearly touched their world twice over. not when he has devoured his own ilk.

he, better than any, knew that the real things to fear was wholly the living.

the sound of footfalls in the muck draw scarab slinking from the shadows; from whence he emerges with unbridled curiosity like the lord of the underworld. lapis lazuli gaze studies her limelight; lithe, lovely, a breathing lilac grey shadow who's presence feels at odds in this place.

or perhaps it is merely scarab's conviction that there is none that can understand him that leads him to this conclusion.

he croons out a low 'woof' to garner her attention, though he lingers near the mouth of the gold veined cavern he's taken temporary shelter in, content with the distance that lingers between them.