Dazed and confused, his senses reeling and failing in the sheer rapid movement of so many bodies around him Cketch is fighting blind in more than his usual sense of the word.
He can feel himself growing stronger yet at the same time weaker as no matter how many of the foul bat things he manages to fell there are always two more to seamlessly fill in the gap.
He is running low on the power to paint his masterpieces, before him the sweet lines in his mind that told him how to paint his moves were fading and becoming bitter.
Almost at his limit the tiny canine pokemon stumbles backwards, caught off guard by a buffet of air from a purple wing tip and falls over backwards, making the sound of a very small dog in a lot of pain as the deep diagonal gas across his chest becomes an oozing "X"against his white fur.
Self-preservation instinct alone manages to get him to scramble upright before a deeper scar gouges itself into the rock beside his paw.
He was going to die, ignobly, without any trace of lingering glory unless the bats were driven off and soon but...he was so very tired.
The disorientating flood of scents and sounds hurts him worse than any of the others, the blind Smeargle can barely tell where the ground is any more.
“Torrent! Therese! Noir-
” he manages to coarsely call in hopes that one of them would answer him before a heavy blow he had failed to Detect smashes hard into him and the Painter Pokemon goes down under a flailing pile of wings, teeth and claws.
Cketch fights for his life, reduced to a pathetic Struggle that hurts him about as much as it hurts the bats each fighting each other to be the first to suck his blood. His blunt clawed paws lash out at everything they can reach as he howls unintelligibly in pain and fear. His desperate thrashing struggles manage to prolong his last few moments of life as the undead's fangs struggle to get a grip on more than a few wiry strands of white and tan fur.
He can't see the piggy look of greed in the dull red eyes but he can smell the stink of their rotting jaws with the warm breaths that waft across his face and he can feel the lap of pointed tongues at his wounds as a few lucky zubats nip in to lick the blood from his wounds. All the while he is being cut to ribbons by the frantic golbats squabbles with each other, the breakdown in their terrifying cooperation being the only thing that has spared his neck so far.
Cketch can only fight against them all the harder as the sharp wing tips accidentally gouge shallow cuts across his face, paws and arms. His own metallic scented blood running warmly into his face Cketch feels he is dying. His desperate tail twitches as he desperately tries to recall the instinctive way he always knew how to paint the unique patterns of a new move. His tail merely twitches without releasing any of the powers he knew it could, the patterns dry and tasteless in his mind.
He can't even take one of them down with him...
In his last panicked throes Cketch's thoughts go to the warm scent of bone and earth and the kindness he had been shown. Would she miss him after he died?
Then a particularly sharp blow of a blade of razor sharp air across his body blocks out the rest of his thoughts.
A loud scream echoes across the entire cavern, a sound too powerful to seem to have emanated from something so small. It makes stalactites vibrate in the ceiling and is filled with such a powerful undeniable agony it penetrates straight through the eardrums into some primal part of the brain.
It is a sound filled with a deep, deep horror and a unique form of disgust and it rises to a pitch that drills into the eardrums like a corkscrew is being pushed into the ear.
The bats clustering around the fallen Smeargle are the closest to the source and take off immediately, abandoning the painter pokemon as he slumps back onto the cold floor.
Blood spills over his paws like a macabre waterfall as tears stream endlessly down the white furred cheeks.
In his hands he clutches his long tail, the purple oozing tip down speckled with red as is hangs by the merest shred of skin.
' he thinks numbly, unable to process the true horror of the moment. "My tail has been cut off