The shrimp, meanwhile, were having another of their little looks. After a bit of silent discussion, one was convinced to tentatively skitter forward. It looked back at its pack, and they urged it on with wordless encouragement. It cocked one of its claws. The shrimp of Tartarus have four of those, though they aren’t really claws in the conventional sense. They’re not pincers either, but rather a sort of spiked, serrated blade, more like a mantis’s claw. They flex them in a particular way and then fire them with unbelievable force, impaling through just about anything short of solid steel. But that’s just the stabbing claws. The lower pair are bashing claws, blunt instruments notorious among other residents of the Pit for being able to break through stone, bone, armored fortifications, or pretty much whatever else might have the misfortune of being placed in front of them. That was the claw that this particular shrimp had loaded up.
It fired. The impact hit like an avalanche, its report echoing through miles of tunnel. Twilight's shield shattered into the ethereal winds.
The shrimp looked back at its comrades. They applauded. And then they charged the soft, fleshy things before them.
It fired. The impact hit like an avalanche, its report echoing through miles of tunnel. Twilight's shield shattered into the ethereal winds.
The shrimp looked back at its comrades. They applauded. And then they charged the soft, fleshy things before them.
—Nine Days Down, Chapter 8: "Hunger"
