How jumpy the swordsman is to strike at the slightest sound; calling upon a strength which resembles spiritual energy at first glance and using it to rend the air of the empty corridor with a horde of singing razors. He'd thought his target close but in truth they are far; strolling thru the hallway six turns and many straight steps away. The metallic wail is a cry of lonely wanderlust; quite unaware of his presence until now, the force he fears reacts appropriately: searching the long-empty pyramid for the vibrant spark of life as it glitters through a void of black; a talent intrinsic to soul-seekers who feed on its essence for sustenance. 

So it extends its awareness like a mist through corridors and rooms alike in a hungry hunt, following the scent of their succulent spirit until it arrives in the chamber of the underworld's king. There the focus intensifies upon him, locking on like a missile's targeting system and broadcasting emotion in the form of intense, crushing hatred; the kind of malicious sensation most feel as pressure pulling them to the ground. Yet the exceptional will stand unperturbed; their own strength keeping the knees from buckling and determination to face the darkness galvanizing resolve to near-unbreakable fortitude.

Which he will show himself to be is accented by the [i]screech.[/i]

It screams in a painful, five second nail-on-chalkboard needle driven directly into his eardrums but kept just below the deafening decibel; carried by the instrument itself. A sound silenced as suddenly as its start but sure to return stronger soon; for now its musician walks toward the inviting, delicious beacon of light the man resonates, aching to be famished no longer.