"A pretty lady disappeared.
And so Grahame just sulked in his cage.
A need for friends outside his cage...
And Lady's never coming back.
So come into the cage and become Grahame's shade."
Ghrahame stares blankly into the ocean, perched atop a precipitous cliff. Not for the first time, he wishes that he had at least a semblance of control over the cage's legs, so he could skitter off the cliff and be done with this madness. His cage-mates barely even respond to stimuli, so conversation is a pipe dream. The most the withered husks can manage to do is skitter about, scrabbling mindlessly along the ground before growing still. Grahame cherishes the moments when they would stop along the oceanside. Despite the fact that his cage would sink like a stone, he dreams of swimming one day. Of feeling the cool water, the hot air, and the tase of salt and brine on his lips.
He looks at the others in his cage.
"Their humanity disappeared.
And now they're stuck in a cage...
A cage of despair, iron and rage.
And Grahame is never breaking out.
Please, come into the cage and give Grahame shade..."
Grahame falls silent, his white, shriveled skin pressing against his cage.
A flash lights up the forest, and from within he can hear voices, musical and full of life. One soft, one defiant, one slightly monotonous, and one as high and beautiful as the finest harp.
"The lady crossbreed just appeared.
But Grahame is stuck in his cage...
Move, move, he wants friends, the first in an age!
MOVE, MOVE, MOVE, OR GRAHAME WILL SCREAM AND RAGE!"
Grahame slaps his hollowed cage-mates, willing them with every fiber of his being to move forward. He shakes the cage with more strength than he thought physically possible, a withered husk rattling the cage with the force of a gale. With a groan, the cage shakes and shudders, raising up as the bodies pressed against the bottom stand and crawl as one organism. The cage wobbles as it moves, steadily ambling towards the light, and those beautiful voices so unlike the groaning ones he is subjected to constantly.
"What's that sound?"
Grahame bursts through the shrubs, stopping his cage-mates with a shaking of the bats.
"You!" Sær hisses. "You have some nerve to show your hollowed face after-"
"Sær, shush," Priscilla whispers, placing her large hand over her fiancee's mouth. "He was being flung about by a chain. What happened isn't his fault."
"He grabbed your scythe! Thanks to him, we might never get it back!"
"Sær, that's enough-"
"The Lady's scythe disappeared.
And so Grahame set out in his cage.
He needs friends outside his cage.
So Grahame went and got it back.
So reach into the cage and make a jolly trade."
He turns, showing a long, black scythe- Priscilla's- interlaced through the bars.
She reaches and grasps it, pulling it gently through the bars. The blade is clean, the shaft polished with plant oil.
"Pretty scythe for a pretty Lady," Grahame says, giving her a shaky grin. He is quite proud of himself, having broken through his madness to forgo his usual rhyme scheme. Priscilla smiles, and slides a finger through the bars.
Sær gasps. "Priscilla, don't-!" His protest is cut short by Priscilla's tail slamming into him, knocking the wind from his lungs.
She pets Grahame's head with a finger, rubbing the pale, bald skin. "Thank you," she says. "The grumpy old dragon over there is Sær. And over there is Mr. Vin-gral, and Rosabeth."
Grahame smiles, the most genuine one he has ever had in his life.
"We should get going. We have a wolf to slay," Sær huffs.
"Wolf. Another wolf did appear.
Hungry jaws clamp down on the cage.
It shall not nourish, it shall not sate.
So Sif took Grrrregh's arm."
Sær tilts his head, puzzled. "Grrrregh?"
One of the hollows raises an arm, severed at the bicep. "Grrrregh," he groans.
"You don't say," Sær says. "Tell me more."
"Grrrregh..."
"Fascinating! What else?"
Priscilla clicks her tongue, smacking him. "Behave yourself, husband." While they are not married yet, she still enjoys adressing him as if they are. She turns to the friendly Cage Spider, kneeling and bringing her face closer. "So your name is... Grahame?"
"Grahame, Grahame, cunning as a fox.
Foxy Grahame, a Grahame most foxy."
Priscilla giggles. "You have quite a deep voice, for such a little thing, mister Grahame."
"Oooooooooooooooooooohm," Grahame chants, his gravelly voice reverbating through his chest. Priscilla smiles warmly, joining in.
"Aaah-la-la-la-la-la-la!" Her voice is high and light, and Sær smiles saccharinely. Priscilla's joy is a drug he is addicted to.
Grahame falls silent, out of breath. "Sif..." He struggles to fight through the fog of his hollowed mind. "Sif... Grahame... Grahame can draw Sif away... Elswise, untouchable he'll stay... Fighting one, to him, is mere play."
"You can help us?" Priscilla says. "Thank you, mister Grahame." She pets him with her finger again, and Sær shifts, hungry for her affection.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The odd troupe walks down a narrow clearing of rock and vine. their footsteps making a queer chorus. Priscilla's shoes make a gentle but heavy tap, tap, clack, clack, while Sær's make a light tep tep tep.
The bulk of the noise comes from Grahame, his skittering limbs making roach-like clicks. The group comes upon a clearing, the bright moonlight blinding them as the step into it. Their eyes adjust, and the clearing comes into view.
A massive headstone stands tall in the center, and equally massive greatsword resting against it, a thin ring resting on the hilt.
A deafening howl echoes around the clearing, seemingly emanating from everywhere at once. A thud shakes the ground, and the group look up. A shadow rests atop the headstone, the growling originating from it. The clouds part, and the moonlight shines across the form of a massive wolf.
"Sif," Sær breathes. Two rings, each set with a green stone, dangle from his ears. He is as big to Priscilla as a normal wolf is to Sær. Throwing his head back, Sif lets out a mournful howl, slowly clamping his jaws around the sword resting against the headstone.
Rosabeth fastens Vengarl to Særs shoulder while he draws his broadsword and parry push-dagger and Priscilla draws her scythe. Grahame ambles up, prepared to circle and draw Sif's attention.
"Another wolf will disappear."