>>5689054The mouth of the Crow bristles as it caws in mockery, wriggling maggots of tongues dangling from its cruel split beak, as they taste and savour the air like serpents. The Crow caws again, and the air is filled with the sawing rasp and unnatural stridulations of its serrated tongues.
The Crow is small, and very fast. Desperately you heft the blunt weight of the Trench Club - there is blood running upon the handle, your own blood - as you hunt the feathered blur of horror with the hammer-blow of your flailing swings.
You feel the crunch of flanged metal intersecting with the cawing cacophony - you have hit it! - and you feel a momentary elation, for amidst the splintered edges of wooden shelves in the library and the drifting whirl of crushed feathers, something has met its bludgeoning edge...
