After the slaughter of albanic soldiers, as the khirig calls them, I follow the sapient deep into the woods. Knowing just how startled these creatures can get upon seeing my ability to fly or shear distortions into space, I limit myself to slithering over the earth.
If only the me of a dozen hunts ago saw me now. I wouldn’t believe it. It’s not that I have grown to enjoy slithering across the surface — it still bothers me greatly — but my desire to communicate and remain in positive terms with these sapients is stronger than I could have imagined.
When the air grows quiet and there’s no sign we’re being chased, the khirig slows his hobbled step and throws himself to the ground. Despite his admittance that I saved him, the creature throws worried glances my way every time he fumbles or trips.
This time, the khirig doesn’t rise. Instead, it takes a short fake-claw that he pilfered from one of the soldiers’ corpses from his waist, and holds it to his undamaged leg antler. The khirig saws into the hard growth without a moment of hesitation.
I watch with morbid curiosity as the creature mutilates itself before my eyes. Each back and forth motion digs the blade deeper into the bone-like antlers, creating a sharp scratching noise. At the rate he’s cutting, the ripple will disappear again before he’s done.
As if detecting my thoughts, the khirig stops. He stares my way. A mixture of fear and resignation marring his features. “You've got enhancement, don’t you?” he asks. “That body's like nothing I’ve heard of.” He gestures an antlered hand to the leg he’s trying to cut. “Do you mind?”
I’m not sure what he’s asking, so I simply stare back at him, tilting my head how Scia would when she was confused.
“Break it,” the khirig says, wincing as he does.
My eyes flick between the antler with a not-claw jammed inside, and the face of the khirig. This isn’t some trick is it? He’s not going to suddenly treat the action as aggression and strike at me, is he? Well, it’s the first time I’m being spoken to properly, so I’m a bit more willing to agree… even if I find the request odd.
I snap forward and strike the back of the blade with my tail before the khirig can flinch. The not-claw slices through without splintering the leg and lodges deep into the soil. No scream. No shout of pain. Thankfully, the khirig shows no more reaction to my action than to stare wide eyed where the blade has sunk beneath the surface.
“Well… I guess there’s no need to fear any desire for my body, huh?” the khirig mumbles under his breath before scrambling to his feet. He stands shorter than before, but now his legs are of even length and he needs not limp with each step. “Thanks. I’m Ryles, by the way.”
Unable to give a proper response, I simply bob my head again. We fall into a silence after that. A silence I detest. There is this opportunity sitting right before me and it seems more interested in making frequent sideward glances at me than speaking. I have a thousand questions I want to ask, but no method to realise them. Even the few questions this sapient has asked until now I’ve been unable to reply with anything but a yes or no.
It’s endlessly frustrating.
The undergrowth is thick here, but the khirig, Ryles, wades through it with purpose. He knows where he’s going, despite the unaltered-by-sapients nature of the forest. I follow, slithering in pace besides him. I’ve noticed he gets unreasonably antsy when I’m not in his sight, so following him at the side keeps him calm.
Eventually, we make our way into a valley, and the taste of burning wood fills the air.
“Uncle,” Ryles shouts, repeating himself after a few moments.
The khirig that lumbers through the trees is not at all subtle in their rush to meet us. “Ryles!” a high pitched voice cries as they crash into the khirig besides me. “How are you alive?”
Ryles gestures an antler my way. “This portian came to my rescue,” he says with a chuckle.
Being introduced, I slither out from the obscuring weeds, revealing myself. Considering these creatures are not ones I’ve saved, I have very little hope that they will treat me with the same consideration as Ryles, but there’s no reason to remain hidden when one of them already knows I’m here.
“A portian, huh?” another khirig steps passed the embracing duo to look down at me. His gaze is sharp, and I barely stop myself from sliding through a bend to face him at eye-height. Better they don’t know.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The khirig looks old. His antlers are brittle, and riddled with chips. Some sections have snapped off, leaving his cage exposing more of the fleshy body underneath than any other of his kind. Despite the weakness of his antlers, he stands tall. His gaze strong. He may not have much strength, but it is clear he doesn’t have the mentality of prey.
“And where did you come from?” he asks, eyes narrowing.
The khirig doesn’t act all that friendly, but he still speaks direct to me, which is more than I can say for most sapients I’ve come across so far. Without words to respond, I settle on the next best thing. I twist my head back the way I came. Towards the large hive far beyond my sight.
The khirig hums, and I turn back to find him softening his gaze, but never taking his eyes from me. “Then I must thank you for helping my nephew.” He bows his head. “I’m sorry I cannot offer you a lavish gratitude, but I can show you to the chicken coop if you’d like to sate your hunger. We kept a few here in preparation for the worst. Unfortunately, the worst seems to have become reality.”
Not really understanding much of the context behind his words, I simply nod. Ryles seems to respond well when do. Plus, there’s a mention of sating hunger involved. I’ve no appetite for now, but I would love to see more of how these creatures prepare their food. I still don’t know how to make dead meat taste so good.
“You can’t speak?” He hums again as he leads me to the smallest nest I’ve seen.
Oh! I have a question I can respond with the other motion I’ve learnt. My head shakes side to side, imitating the action of a few sapients. As much as I wish the answer to be the opposite, its not like I can answer with a nod. If I’m not responding with the appropriate motion, then all I’m doing is making odd movements with my body. Communication would collapse if they lose their meaning.
“Is that body new?” he asks, brow raised.
We stop before the small nest dense with the scent of fowl. I look up at the khirig, confused. Is that body new. Its only four words, and yet I’m entirely lost on his meaning. I consider nodding again, simply because I’m unsure, but I stop myself; that wouldn’t be right. I’ve had this body as long as I can remember, after all. I shake my head.
“Alright then, we’ll have a private reunion with Ryles. Help yourself.” The khirig gestures to the small nest then strides off.
I poke my head into the nest… or what I’m guessing they call a coop, and immediately the dozen fowl rush around in a frenzy, terrified, but alive.
Was he not going to show my how they prepare their food?
I glance around for a few moments, wandering whether there’s another sapient with the caste of meal-preparer, but the one named Uncle calls for everyone to gather, leaving none to show me how its done.
The hive itself is small. Hardly even worthy of being called a hive at all. There are no major structures besides the bundle of sticks that makes the coop and what appears to be a thick skin that is tied between a few trees and creates a cover. I wonder what beast could be so large, and yet have such fragile looking skin?
There are not even twenty sapients here, leaving it the smallest congregation of sapients I’ve seen. They gather together on the opposite side of the clearing from where they left me.
I realise there is no meat-preparer coming. They leave me here to speak amongst themselves. A stab of annoyance hits me as I realise they’ve intentionally left me out of the communication between so many beings. Most I’ve seen so far have been talks amongst small groups. The total number of sapients here might be limited, but I’ve not seen this type of conversation before, where Uncle stands and talks to them all.
I pass a few bends and fall out of sight of the few that look my way. To them, it looks like I’ve entered the coop, but I divert around the outside and sneak up on their hushed chatter to listen in.
“…but I saw it kill four of them in a matter of seconds,” Ryles says.
“No, I won’t trust a portian,” Uncle snaps. “And I’m not even convinced that thing is a portian. If they are a parasite, and as strong as you say, then they would have morphed the host’s throat to speak.”
“Then what else could it be?” Ryles asks, lowering his voice again.
“I don’t know.” Uncle shakes his head. “But I cannot trust it. We will not be involving it in our fight.”
“Are you sure?” another khirig asks. “We could send it out first, and not worry about it striking our backs.”
“No. The Henosis killed our family, and it will be by our hands that we bring vengeance.”
Most of the gathered khirig grunt in approval, while a sparse few show nothing but apprehension.
“They are going to regret killing my child.” The sharpness is back in Uncle’s eye, accompanied by a burning fury.
They want to fight against the Albanics.
The idea lingers in my mind, but I can barely comprehend it. These creatures are supposed to be sapient, and yet they want to attack a force stronger than themselves? It is beyond foolish.
Not only do the soldiers outnumber them four to one, they have weapons that can shred them apart in moments. There are a few similar pellet-throwers scattered through their camp, but not nearly enough for every khirig. Even if there are no warrior caste amongst the soldiers, these sapients will only die if they attempt to take them on.
Unless there are some here with more strength than the average warrior caste, then I can’t imagine they’ll survive.
Why would they even consider it? They've already escaped. They can hold on to their lives. Why would they run back to fight the strong?
It makes no sense.
It is the natural way of things. You cannot fight things stronger than yourself. You can flee, and hide from the Titanic beings that hunt you, but challenging those you have no chance against is suicide.
It simply doesn't work like that.
Why are they determined to initiate a battle they cannot win?