P’taal hits the water with a large splash. Swimming to the surface, he gazes up at the cliff from which he just plunged. H’lvif, Elder Glandis’ sole heir, floats in the river’s current several meters away. The injured warrior’s face is badly battered, his left arm hanging on by mere threads of muscle and sinew.
P’taal summons all of his strength and swims in the direction of his fallen hunt brother. The warrior’s sharp hearing picks up sounds of the battle raging on the ridge above. Plasmacasters fire on repeat, and the screeches of ghkivu-keinde hybrids pierce the evening air.
P’taal reaches H’lvif and bobs underneath him, in order to place a shoulder under the injured yautja’s one good armpit. His plan is to guide H’lvif to shore and then rejoin his hunt brothers in their battle. If they survive, he will return for H’lvif.
P’taal’s plan is foiled when there is a large eruption of water to their front. A ghkivu-keinde hybrid leaps from the water at P’taal. This hybrid, one of many—still swims in the river’s depths. It is not like its brethren, which now crawl upon the land. This creature is doubly dangerous.
P’taal, grateful that the clan engineers modified the hunters’ targeting systems to also work independent of their masks, aims for the leaping creature and fires. The plasma shot rips half of the diving hybrid’s head off. Purple blood spills out from the gaping wound, sizzling as it hits the water. But the creature is not yet done.
The hybrid screeches loudly, and whips its barbed tail, arching it over the top of its mangled cranium. The tail slams through H’lvif’s back, killing him instantly. Green blood spurts over P’taal’s face, chest, and arms. He roars with anger, and fires a second shot with his plasmacaster.
The second round of plasma catches the xeno hybrid center mass. The creature waves its numerous tentacles in the air and flails backward, its entrails flowing out along with its lifeblood. P’taal uses his sheathed knife to cut away the barbed tail jutting out of H’lvif’s back. He gazes sadly down at the body of his fallen hunt mate, as he drags him away from the steaming mess of tentacles and teeth.
The acid will not harm H’lvif. He is already dead. However, only certain portions of P’taal’s armor are impervious to the hybrid’s acidic body fluids. Better to get as far from the stinking beast as possible.
More cries up on the ridge. Those of his hunt brothers. The battle does not seem to be going well. How many had already fallen before he dove into the water? Two? Three? How many of his warrior brothers are now left?
P’taal arrives at the shore and rests H’lvif’s body against a large boulder. He places a clawed hand over the wound in H’lvif’s chest and closes his eyes.
“May the ancestors carry you with honor,” P’taal utters into the darkening night.
Climbing to his feet, P’taal only looks back once. The beasts will not seek the flesh of his brother. For now, the body is safe.
-
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Hunt Leader Jrokah fires her plasmacaster until it glows redder than the nearest sun. The ghkivu-keinde hybrid weaves back and forth, undeterred by the loss of a tentacle or two. It alternates between using its tentacles to grip and glide through the trees and using its spiny legs to crawl. Jrokah backs slowly through the trees, her round hazel eyes searching for a route of escape. She needs time for her weapon to cool.
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“This is not working, Jrokah!” comes the deep voice of Sernetu. “We need another plan.”
“A bit late for that!” Jrokah yells in a strong voice. “Keep firing until you can clear a path.”
“I cannot. If I keep firing…My caster may explode!” Sernetu protests.
“Then it explodes. Do not stop firing. We are almost clear. Furjurn!”
Wrenching her specialized combistick free from her belt, Jrokah hits it against her thigh and the tool extends to its full length. She regrets the possibility of losing her prized weapon, but Sernetu is right. Firing too long could mean the battle will be over sooner than they’d expected.
Jrokah hurls the combistick towards the approaching hybrid, at the same time that she fires a shot from her plasmacaster. The monster cannot dodge both. The hunt leader’s combistick proves to be the weapon needed to do the trick. The metal end plunges into the skull and brain of the ghkivu monster. The creature seems to consider its peril, and then loses its grip on the tree it was swinging on. It crumbles to the ground in a massive heap.
Sernetu is still firing. His reddish-brown eyes scan the trees, his quarry using them as cover in an attempt to get closer. With only moments for her plasmacaster to cool, but with an excellent vantage point of the creature stalking Sernetu, Jrokah fires her weapon.
The monster appears to explode. Tentacles, acidic blood, and chitinous body parts rain down from the forest canopy. Thankfully, Sernetu was not underneath. The brave warrior glances at Jrokah with a look of gratitude.
“Thank y—,” Sernetu begins.
Before the words are out of the hunter’s mouth, another creature leaps for him. Opening its massive maul, the creature goes straight for Sernetu’s head. The warrior takes a few steps back, but he is too late.
The hybrid knocks him to the ground, gripping his head in its monstrous mouth. While the large mouth keeps Sernetu’s face in position, the smaller mouth shoots forward and punches through his head. Sernetu’s arms go limp as his life is extinguished.
“Noooo!” Jrokah bellows.
Only a moment too late, Jrokah resumes firing her plasmacaster. She fires twice upon the murderous hybrid, killing it and spewing purple acidic blood over the body of her fallen pupil. But it could not be helped.
Scrambling through the brush causes Jrokah to pivot to her left. A yautja she does not recognize makes his way through the trees in her direction. Green blood soaks his front, but Jrokah is certain it is not his.
“Who are you?” Jrokah yells, suspicion in her voice.
Is this yautja one of the infected who were stranded here? A prisoner? Why else would he be covered in another yautja’s blood?
As the warrior draws closer, Jrokah is able to glimpse the symbol of his clan on his armor. The acid scoring is new. He has received his blooding on this very island. One of the other teams, then?
“I am P’taal. One of the nine of Fihgi. I know who you are…Hunt Leader Jrokah…Of the Yrkig. I come to help. I am not your enemy.”
Jrokah tilts her head in a haughty gesture, appraising P’taal from his place amongst the trees. The Fihgi, while a small clan, is known for breeding some of the fiercest warriors. This warrior will do. After all, none of her own pupils remain—R’dor having been carried off by one of the cursed serpent hybrids. By now, he will be incubating a serpent’s worm.
Jrokah strolls to the spot where the hybrid which she killed with her combistick lies. P’taal stands ready with his plasmacaster as she retrieves her weapon. Jrokah approaches the silent warrior with an air of importance. He watches her with slightly narrowed eyes.
“How many…Have you killed?” Jrokah whispers in a voice tinged with invitation.
P’taal stares down at the yautja female in front of him. Barely three inches separates their heights. Her scent causes P’taal’s blood to surge in his veins and he offers her a thin smile.
“Almost as many as I have fingers,” P’taal lies. But only by two.
“That is…Admirable,” Jrokah says. “I have heard tales of your clan. Bravery is not in short supply.”
Jrokah rests a clawed hand on P’taal’s armor, above where his heart beats.
“Perhaps, when this is over…You can show me how it was done.”
P’taal’s eyes narrow even further, as his maleness begins to tingle with anticipation.
“Perhaps,” the warrior simply says.
“We should keep moving,” Jrokah commands. “My hunt ship is not far away. We can regroup there. The other teams may have fallen back as well. Those that remain can plan another assault on the serpent settlement. There was dozens of rogues imprisoned here. Even with the number of kills you and I have witnessed or taken part in…There must be many more serpents. We’ll need warriors....And more weapons.”