Page 24 of Rok's Captive
I extend my senses, attempting to catch his thoughts, but encounter only silence. No Drakav would shield their mind so completely unless they were hostile. Every attempt to establish a connection meets an impenetrable void.
Perhaps he is a youngling? His size suggests he might be, though something seems off. He lacks the proper markings of any clan I recognize. His skin is a strange pale color, and he wears coverings unlike anything I have seen.
A ripple of unease goes through me. What horror have the creatures this male killed endured for him to drape their hides as trophies across his body? Strange hides that cover his legs and chest. Worse yet is the reflective hide that catches Ain’s light. It must have come from some creature I have yet to encounter in all my sols.
And the sounds he makes…Gods, my ear holes bleed. Constant, meaningless vocalizations expelled through his mouth. No proper mindspeak at all.
I shift, crouching lower, my complete focus on the male before me. I suppose it is good that he is so loud. If not for his constant vocalizations, I might not have found him.
Last dark, when I first spotted this intruder approaching our marker, I had hastily raked warning symbols into the sand. The pattern was haphazard, rushed, but any Drakav would recognize the meaning:Turn back. Danger ahead. Territory claimed.
The male ignored them completely.
Now he stirs, making more of those strange vocal sounds. He manipulates something to his mouth and I go still when a drop runs down the corner of his lips.
Water.
He is drinking water.
It is from a strange waterskin, though I am not sure I can call it a waterskin at all. I almost give away my position with the urge to move closer just to investigate, when, without thought or reverence, the male wipes away the drop that ran down his lips with the back of his hand.
My veins go cold.Wasteful. A being who would waste even a drop of the sacred life-giving liquid can be nothing but dangerous. A destroyer. A defiler. This confirms what I already suspected.
This male is a threat.
I tense as I watch him survey his surroundings, my muscles coiling with the instinctive readiness that makes my tribe such feared warriors. Has he detected me? Impossible. My camouflage is perfect. The male’s gaze passes directly over my hiding place, lingers for a moment, then moves on.
His attention shifts toward another clan’s territorial marker in the distance, and alarm pulses through me. That marker indicates the boundaries between my clan and theirs. They are our rivals. Males we have fought against and bled because of. If this male intends to take passage through our lands to go into theirs, I cannot allow it. We cannot appear to be weak. And we cannot appear to have helped this intruder. If he is as dangerous as I think he is…I should eliminate him here.
I must act. But how?
The male begins moving again, not back the way he came, but into our territory and toward the rival clan’s.
I watch as he arranges small stones into a pattern before departing and I creep forward once he’s a safe distance away, examining the creation.
It is a crude thing, but it has a point and an end. Even I can see it’s a directional marker pointing toward our settlement, with strange symbols beside it. A message for others of its clan, perhaps? Reinforcements? This might be the beginning of some invasion.
The decision is made. I will follow this strange male. If he is scouting for an invasion force, I must know his purpose. If he is a lone intruder, I must prevent him from reaching the rival clan’s territory and getting further into ours. Either way, I cannot let him wander freely.
I move in silence, my feet gliding over the hot sand without leaving even the slightest impression. The heat brings comfort to my foot pads. This is my element, my territory—where I am most powerful.
The male, in contrast, moves like a wounded sandfin dragging itself across the dunes. His footfalls are heavy, clumsy, leaving tracks so obvious that a blind nestling could follow them. Each step pushes deep into the sand, creating a trail that might as well be marked with signal fires.
“Who are you?” I project the thought toward him, focusing my mindspeak carefully. Nothing. The void remains.
But the male stops suddenly and turns around. I drop, my body flattening against the dust, skin shifting to match the exact shade and texture of my surroundings. Mydra-kirhammers in my chest. Did he sense me? But no, he merely surveys the terrain before turning back and continuing his awkward trudge.
As Ain climbs higher in the sky, pouring its merciless heat onto the dust, I expect the male to seek shelter. He is obviously struggling. Instead, he continues, though his pace slows significantly. More vocalizations emerge from him—sharp, clipped sounds that carry a tone of… frustration? Pain? I cannot interpret the meaning.
He stops again and I freeze, this time behind a small rock outcropping barely large enough to conceal me. The male adjusts the shiny layer of his strange hide coverings, revealing more pale flesh beneath. He secures this covering over his head. I barely catch a glimpse of his dusty yellow fur.
What I do catch is a glimpse of his exposed arms. They are turning a deeper shade. A shade that often signals rage or warning in the dust. I don’t move, my entire focus on him, waiting for him to lurch towards me in an attack. Instead, he turns, stumbles, and carries on.
Strange.
If he is not changing color as a warning, then… Is he unwell? Maybe he is no scout after all. Maybe he is heading to a Giving Stone—the place where all Drakav go to die. And the place where all Drakav emerge into this world.
Wrong. The nearest Giving Stone is in the opposite direction, and this male persists, continuing his determined march toward the rival clan’s territory.
