The Weeping Beast 1

It was a place for the dead.
He didn’t belong there, not yet, though the wind whispered through the wild reeds in his mind and spoke of a great rest and his lips tasted of honey.
His hand brushed against one of the large columns as he passed. The stone was cold. At the next column he lingered and traced the strange markings carved along its surface.
The markings were not the only strange thing he had encountered in this land.
A cry suddenly echoed among the columns. He knew the dead did not cry yet unsheathed his broad sword, as instinct demanded him.
The cry continued. He followed the sound through row after row of the towering columns until he at last found the source.
A creature knelt at the base of one of the stone columns. The being’s form was enough like a human to call her a woman. The scales of her skin shimmered in the dull red haze of the moonlight. Her hair was woven in chords that were long and black. When she turned her head she uncovered a slim face with wide eyes that shone like dark jewels and a mask that covered her nose and mouth. A thin flap of skin started under her chin and ran down to her chest.
She gazed up at him with glistening eyes.
“Be gone strange spirit.” She said, “You cannot take me.”
“Do I appear a spirit to you?”
The woman coughed behind her mask.
“Be gone.” She said as she leapt and swung her arms out at the man. Her hands stopped abruptly against his very solid torso.
The man grabbed her arm in defense.
The start of a scream slipped through her mask but was hurriedly covered by her free hand. Her eyes darted about wildly in fear.
“I mean no harm.” The man told her.
He let go of her arm but kept his sword close to his side.
Those dark eyes of the woman looked at him with a new shine. Her hand gently slipped away from her mask.
“You are a stranger in Venusia.” She said.