51st of Summer, 515 A.V.
Argos thought that the screaming was a bit excessive.
He could handle the unnatural chill that infected the graveyard. He could handle the way colors seemed to mute themselves as it drew nearer and nearer to him. Hell, he could even handle the way it blinked forward at inhuman speed, its ethereal hands grasping for the warmth of flesh. Altogether, a fairly terrifying experience.
The screaming, however, was just silly. And frankly, a little melodramatic.
Puffs of white steamed out of the young Vantha's mouth, gasping breaths filling his lungs with cold air. He wasn't built for this type of exertion. The constant motion, running fueled by fear and desperation, it wasn't something his body was used to. Argos could already feel his muscles begin to burn, and a tiny voice in the back of his mind questioned how long he could keep running from this creature. Add in a surprise snowstorm, and he truly didn't know how favorable his odds were.
Argos gritted his teeth as icy winds buffeted his exposed head. Snowflakes frenzied above him, dotting his black hair with white crystals. The howl of the storm shook the headstone that the Vantha hid behind. Tremors of force and fear danced up and down Argos' spine, and even in the midst of the roaring storm still the screaming came. Sound knifed through the sky, any opposing echoes shredded in its terrible wake.
Gods did he want the screaming to stop.
It proved funny, in an ironic kinda of way. Argos had come to the cemetery to pay respects to the dead, and now the dead wanted him to join them. He might have even found the strength to laugh if he wasn't so godsdamned tired. Still, even with the exhaustion settling nicely into his muscles and the fear-sweat starting to freeze on his forehead, Argos figured it was nice to feel wanted.
Look at me, still cracking jokes in the midst of imminent terror. Maybe my brother is right. Maybe I am still a bit mad.
He had tried to leave. Tried to find a way out of the cemetery and back to his home, but the snowstorm made such attempts an impossibility. Those flurries of shock white snow near blinded him to anything farther than fifteen feet away, and his own footsteps were covered up as quickly as he placed them. Fortunately that meant that whatever specter that was chasing him had to do it by sight alone. Unfortunately, that also meant Argos could be walking circles without ever knowing it.
At this rate, exposure will kill me faster than any spook will. I've got to get out of the cold. Got to get out of sight.
Screams pierced the sanctity of the Vantha's thoughts, this time echoing closer than the previous shrieks. Argos' pulse quickened, his heart beating like a drum against his chest, and he forced his legs to stand. He couldn't afford to hide anymore. He had to move. His steps started slowly, using the headstones of the fallen to bear his weight when he couldn't. Still the screams chased him, creeping towards him out of the corner of his eyes. The wails stabbed at the shadows of his mind, tearing at the desperation which fueled Argos' every step.
As he moved deeper into the Ice Fields, Argos felt afraid. Real, raw, and unfiltered fear. The type of terror that makes madness seem real, and reality like the half-formed dream of days long past. The sound of that scream, so filled with fury and hate, it was enough to make any sane man lie down in the snow and beg for death.
Lucky for Argos, he wasn't quite sane.