@violet-assassin
The rag loosely tied across Antok’s face fluttered as he exhaled. In, out, in, out, in, out. He focused on the rasp of his labored breathing as he dashed across the seemingly-deserted battlefield. When he came to a dip or hollow in the land he slid down to catch his breath and rest a moment.
He was rarely alone. Galra, fur matted with blood and filth, lay face-down in the mud; the empty eye-sockets of Grindish skulls stared at him, wide with shock, as he passed: their bodies already disintegrated only hours after the battle. Antok hardly had time to marvel over the odd biology of the Grindi, though.
Antok had taken great care in his disguise, looking like any one of the desperate scavengers who flocked in the trail of the Galra Army. Like carrion crows they descended on deserted battlefields, picking through the corpses to salvage armor, weapons, valuables, anything. The dirty rags hanging from his body hid his massive shape, his tail curled against the base of his back, his third eye.
The Blade of Marmora was not here to pick at just any corpse, though. He was here to retrieve the blade of one of their fallen before someone else could claim it. He just had to manage it without being noticed.
Antok folded himself into another hollow as he approached the edge of the battlefield, peering over a bloated body to the chaos beyond.
