A wooden spear, end obsidian sharp, poked her skin; she budged, making to run, and in one shot it pierced her lung. Biting her lips, she stifled a cry and endured. At her every side threatening a ruthless tear, the enemy quickly surrounded her, both parties the same stink. Leaves rustling, rocks pierced the wind above the trees rhythmically, ever near; shuffling down, one spear retracted as they fell into the rocks fell, sound muffled by cloth. To each one the bag was passed, and after the last felt its weight, they tied her members, gagged her and rushed off. Stepping on twigs, feet following their natural incline, they spun without breaking; stepping on mud, body light as a feather, no sink no slide. Only that slight ruffling of leaves that did not end.
Knee to knee they jumped about, their kin stepstones for new heights achieved; wave and weave, swift on the wind, the feathery leaves caressed their skin, none flinching at the red rashes. Above the trees the blue light shone, feeble; muscles bulging and veins on edge, skin rough and calloused hands, their countenance severe. Brushing against the woman’s skin, it bled as if struck by hidden blades; stopping abruptly, the man emitted a low grunt and tossed her. No resistance she felt from the air, following its natural current, passed down to a different set of hands, still callous, much warmer. Cradled into a princess carry, steel-like abs rubbed against her ass, her small chest pressed against ample breasts; ears perked down, she beamed a smile and hugged her captor, nudging her head on the soft mounds, forgetting the pain.
Small stones flew about, barely noticeable, tossed and grabbed by the swamp dwellers to fling farther away; the ones thrown closer went toward a single point, following her direction. Oblique light shone down the trunks, trees cut down and morphed into logs fit for a single step, their shape a trail to a small pagoda. The female captor let go and fixed the woman’s position, landing harmlessly at the base ground, back straight as a pole.
Stones were passed down from hand to hand, the captor effortlessly removed the woman's battered uniform, revealing her naked skin and bleeding, perky breasts; frowning, she stared pitifully at the captor, who plastered her a greasy ointment, smell thick with herbs. Receiving the caring touch, her pink cheeks flushed a healthy red; with new garments on hand, cool, dry, and easier to move in, the captor helped her change. Scratching away the nagging itch caused by the leaves, all the shadows stopped and stared her down; ears drooping, she stopped, not daring to move. Their actions resumed.
From the holes in the building shone light that reflected elderly men and women, noticeably thinner, their backs slightly bent, above their heads’ handmade crowns of tree roots, leaves, and feathers; one by one they left through the archway. From above slid down some wood shingles, threatening to fall; men shot to the roof, not an inch of noise allowed, sweeping the pagoda of all its tiles. Ignoring her, they quickly inspected each tile, putting away the stale and moldy, taking down the walls and feeling around the roof. The woman felt once more that warm bosom whisking her to a tree log; she tilted her head as the building was torn apart and reconstructed in an hour.
Once finished, she was brought back and the men bowed, some harboring a healthy fear in their slightly shaking eyes, others a sharp glint; they opened a path straight to the old ones. An ugly hag grabbed her face, skin old and wrinkled, she squished her mouth into a fish's and inspected her row of teeth with failing eyes; she touched the woman’s body from top to bottom, pinching and stretching, pulling and caressing. The woman looked at the bulky people surrounding her, deadly spears on hand, rocky feathers of Naobi as trinkets; her mouth stretched into a straight line, she opened her arms and let her do as seen fit.
Finished, the hag drew rocks from her bag and passed them around the elders; they pulled their beards and craned their necks, or caressed the wooden beads on their wrists. Receiving their collective nods, she passed the bag of stones to the woman. Looking right and left, she made to scratch her head and stopped in the middle of the action. She activated the book, which flickered with a fiery light, the tribesmen backing away, spears tucked; stepping forward, the oldest shook his hands and waved away the ruthless air of murder, all lowering their weapons. To the elder, the pages painted creatures unknown to his world and oblique words; to the woman, the image of a bald man who sat alone on a clearing, on one hand a sharp tool, pressed against the stone on the other.
Runes: Hard rocks filled with meaning. Learning from the creatures that inhabited the swamp, humans exercised utmost caution during every action; the need for silence slowly killed verbal communication, and the fear of predators attracted to fire, along with the lack of material, made their previous writing system difficult to use. Cheap and efficient, the runes can be told apart by shape and weight; as their control of the natural forces grew, tribesmen could identify them from the whisking noise produced as they rode the wind. This specific set has the meaning for “God”, “strong” and “creation”.
Pressing her lips together, the woman looked at the elder and shook her head; he looked at the female captor, who gently offered her hand to the líber. The woman jumped on her arms, holding her tightly, and they went out silently, a small group following behind; as their shadows crossed the moonless night, she stared at the sky and suppressed a sigh.
Like ghosts they rode the wind, halting only at the last tree on sight; tall stood the rock formation while the swamp no longer was, the gloomy silence overcame by running water, and shrill howls all too familiar, on a place feet couldn’t reach and eyes were robbed of sight. Shifting the woman to her front, the captor pressed against the wall and grit her teeth, scaling down as thorny branches cut her skin, struggling to eat her muscles; pressed between two hard surfaces, the woman slid slowly by the rock and fell minutes later, swooped into a brightly lit cave.
Led inside, her eyes peeked at the figures hidden in the corners. A pair of women, clothes old and ragged, cold and malnourished, imparted what was left of their body warmth to two fat babies. A man, young, strong and beautiful, lay with his right arm shriveled and contorted, his breath shallow; a woman his age came in, gave him a passing glance, and ignored his plight. Children, crying, playful or unruly, all severely rebuked with a beating, denied a single huff of protest. On a side room, she caught the sight of a woman giving birth, stopping briefly to watch. A man held the baby for a few seconds, after which he whimpered a cry; quickly shaking his head, he was hushed and taken to another room. Only sounds of stone carving stood unhindered, the hands of the craftsman shaky, their eyes darting from one place to another as staunch old people observed the process. Feeling a nudge on the shoulder, the woman moved on.
Walking deeper inside, carvings appeared, increasing in proportion to the distance, their empty spaces filled by hues of brown and green; most were of humans small in size, running away from others of sharp teeth and red hands; ahead, trees barred their way, ending the chase. Raising an eyebrow, she picked up her book.
Post-war Records: Carvings depicting the mass exodus in New Dawn. The weakest, and the unwilling to succumb to the art of devouring, taught by Chaos after Gods’ War, could only flee to most inhospitable environments; hundreds of thousands died on the way, and many more as they settled in the swamps, yet survival proved humans’ resilience even against the direst of odds. What could be mustered of their dying knowledge is etched on those walls, along with a story of struggle.
As the walls expanded in size, more diverse stories sprouted from the figures, seemingly unrelated, randomly put together. Pace hastened, the tribesmen rushed her through the cave, stopping just short of the end; nudging her, they opened the way to an intricate carving.
It was a group of women with green stripes on their wrists and ankles, long ears shaped like a butterfly; circling them, the symbols of all gods known. The elder took her hand and gave her three runes.
Creation. Help. People.
Weighing the stones in her hand, the woman backtracked into the wall depicting men hunting a Naobi; she circled her finger on the spear-wielding warriors and created a line towards the creature, smiling.
The old man nodded.
