The woman snacked on a reptile's meat, slim, patting her plump belly. Nearby scattered torches, men and women, the old and the young, the sick and the handicapped, equally dressed, scantily, discolored; children well-nourished, sturdy and strong, bruised red on their coarse skins. They stared at the disappearing piece of meat, alternating to the bulging stomach, a grumbling heard of their own; meeting with the warrior’s gaze, a thousand lives the weight bearing, they averted their eyes, scooting closer to the flame.
A beast of a man, iron skin and flesh of stone, stormed off the path from which they came; between his gnashing teeth, a slab of meat with herbs garnished, torn and swallowed in one go. He phased through, no glance spared at the three who followed, ointments plastering on his open wounds, cloth more red for each step trailed. The warrior clutched her neck and stretched it, closing her eyes for time indefinite.
The tribesmen went on a hunting spree, them she followed with rapt attention; Naobi into stone would turn soon after its death, its nurturing flesh denied, Drifters eating the spreading fire, though long after spreading death. Food was scarce, meat even more so; scouts searched for their night’s worth, risking their lives in land unknown. Warriors passed by savoring hunger, reaching home to gorge themselves after a gruesome battle, survivors few if any; as new Naobi approached, and returned the old to familiar land, they’d raise weapons to meet their death. Those that dealt not in death could not escape such fate, for the weak had no right for pity, and born that way no right to live; those adults had not much use for food, women treated better only concerning her child's health.
Approached a particular room, the warrior stepped forward and led her elsewhere; many a time it happened near that space, to the butchery a neighbor. The warrior felt a weak tug, looking down to see a boy, face pale as a corpse, lips blood tainted. She glanced around, seeing nobody in sight, and pulled out a dry snack, rare delicacy, kid stuffing it in and going away; they proceeded as usual.
One day, the butchery’s way was blocked, the room, at usual dark and cold like most, now warm with strong fire; a moldy tapestry, covered in black and moss, low-quality handling, stretched out far. The people, every day hovering a flame, emptied the hallways with presences made known, at ease and comfortable, yet air solemn; hey split in the middle upon approach.
Carvings of men and women, intricate, their eyes closed and a content smile, they painted the walls near the entrance; a man expertly hammered a new one, he moved towards the end of the line, where others did the same, strength and timing both the same, a rhythmic clashing. Down the tapestry's last thread, uneven, opened a circular hall, each angle a dilapidated stone bed; there lay elderly, the feeble, and the useless. People offered them runes, which they felt with trembling hands, those that could feel. Central, a tree of milky bark spanned for the height of a child, each leaf a calming fragrance, falling in hues of orange-green; an elder bled its sap into a bowl, mashing it with the leaves, a translucent glow.
Youngsters, bodies tempered by harshness, back ramrod straight, passed by the elder, on their cheeks plastered two slits of the ointment. At the rocky beds, birth mothers whispered their last farewells, undiscernible grunts and small runes; a man caressed his beloved's dry lips, while a kid, confused, stood at his side. Some had tears, some had smiles, and others nothing to be shown; not a person to care for them, warriors who fought for the tribe held their hands and muttered inaudibly. They gave way to the chosen seeds, some experienced soldiers filling the spot for a lack of them, not bestowed with the glowing liquid.
They waited, each moment a last breath silent, and last remaining the lukewarm corpses. The youngsters dug their knives on the cleansed’s heart, expressions cold, with sharp teeth tearing the weakened flesh; mouth and hands bloody, they filled their stomachs to satisfaction. Cutting the skin and partitioning the muscles they dissected their kin, waste of a single muscle not allowed. They carried away the flesh on bowls and offered them to the tribesmen.
The woman watched the ritual, eyes not wavering. None hunted on that day.
Training proceeded as usual. In room poorly lit, the woman watched the warrior's posture when striking, sharp end cutting through the air; no silence it sook, but mortal precision, strength into a single point, at weakest to pierce, if mastered, to erase. Quick and effective, no flair or beauty, if not that of creeping death. With ease she replicated the moves, falling into combat a step short; the warrior cornered her at each point, robbed of an escape path, struggling inside the beast's jaw.
During a bolt of unarmed combat, the warrior stopped short of pummeling her stomach, no reaction besides a foolish smile; never once did the woman close her eyes, always the short end of the exchange. Eyes flashing an ominous glint, the warrior dealt a crushing blow; bile and meat undigested, she choked, swallowing the mess. Eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly pouting, tears, small diamonds, sneaked into the woman's eyes; the warrior stood unmoved, the woman kept her expression. Giving in, she lowered her eyes, lips parting slightly, and kneeled, patting her head. Rummaging through her bag, she squeezed small runes on her delicate hand.
Pain. Recover. Sadness. Recover. Alert. Always.
The corner of her mouth twitched a trembling smile, shutting down a second later.
Through the next sparring sessions, the woman flinched against her approaching fist, stepping back with eyes closed; seeing no progress, she slumped her back, ears upturned. Staring pitifully at the warrior, she eventually caved in to pat her head, a smile blooming on the woman's lips. The líber’s hair, fluffy and bright like cotton candy, even after its months' exposure to the wild, kept its luster and natural fragrance; her muscles, pushed to the limits by wild battling and non-stop tempering, did not change in the slightest, soft as a persimmon, skin milky white.
The warrior accommodated her, allowing the little one to nudge her fluffy head on her abs during their sleep, not daring to touch her body, a small scratch a nasty bleed. It was no use, the small thing grew more daring by the day, hugging her tanned body and rubbing her body against her rough skin. As those nights came to pass, there was some progress with her training; eyes alert, she was always on watch against a spanking.
Noticing her progress, a fire burnt on the warrior's eyes, she clenched her spear into a tight grip and aimed a killing blow; eyes widening, the woman dodged at the last second and pierced towards the warrior’s heart, by few inches missing. The warrior changed trajectories, losing in power but bashing her head; severely wounded lay both, victor clear as the warrior dropped, clutching her chest. It was time to repay the favor; the woman grinned and undressed the wound, slowly massaging the bleeding breast, the warrior breathing deep huffs on her hot ears. Done, she nudged her in the cheek; struggling to move, the warrior smiled and patted her head, a corner of her lips curling up.
They hadn't seen each other past that day, but a huge feast ensued for all the tribesmen, eating away most of their reserves. It was a rare situation where even a syrupy drink was served, only a small cup for every person, for children a single drop. While the banquet proceeded for some time, the warriors changed their shifts with the scouts while others slept.
On the next Naobi hunt, all warriors accompanied the woman, crushing a camp in minutes; an audible quake, their bodies fell along with the surrounding trees. The tribesmen fled, fire engulfed the land into a sea of flames, the fiery blood solidifying into a vast burning hill. A curtain of smoke rose heavy, and within shadows round and black, at a second mixing with the empty sky; the fire immediately stopped spreading, mild and tamed, waiting for the nightmarish creatures.
