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Chapter 2
Morning of the final day came faster than expected, waking each Sarachoo from its slumber. They gathered, in Human Form, within the middle of their village and waited for his majesty to confront them with tonight's plan of action.
A rush of silence overcame the gathering as Bremeg made his appearance in Human Form and stepped upon the stump he and the previous Kings had used over the centuries. He looked proud, ready, assured that his plan would work – but with a price. “Many of you will die,” Bremeg didn't want to sugar-coat the truth. “Many of you will be injured,” he began with the bad news to make sure their spirits would be raised in the end, “and only one of you will become the Savior.” The blue Marcroo looked over his people, seeing the worry in their faces, flooding their eyes. “For many a millennia, we have watched our species be eaten and brought to the verge of extinction. Fate has blessed us with the glory of the Savior.” Bremeg looked behind himself to smile at his wife – his Queen, his son – his heir, and his daughter. He turned back to continue his speech, lightening the mood, “But tonight, our lives will be saved by ourselves; it is time to allow the Savior to rest forever – to create a stable peace within our land. No more shall we die off to please a far more devilish species; no more shall we fear time; no more shall we cringe at every dark cloud. Tonight, we gain our right to live!” Bremeg hoisted a fist into the air, cuing the Sarachoo to cheer and throw their fists up as well. It was a sight to remember; a sight to make one's heart flutter with hope; a sight that deceived all.
By noon, the Sarachoo gathered for their own feast; they danced and cheered, drank water and ate Beglons, hay, carrots, and other forms of large insects that resembled grubs. Games were included – simple mathematical games. One in particular was a gambling game with wooden dice, sweets, and twigs. It was simple, yet fun: there were three dice – one with the four main math symbols, two with six sides for the numbers. When one would solve the equation, a subtraction or division would take away that many sweets from that player and gain that many twigs, with addition or multiplication, they would gain sweets and subtract twigs. Each player would start off with fifty pieces of sweets and fifty twigs. Once a player has only twigs, it was game over for that player.
Other games were played, of course. The Marcroo tended to have eating and running contests. By evening, things got serious – the Sarachoo practiced out timing to release the large wooden spear traps and familiarized themselves with the areas that the spears were buried; this way, they wouldn't be caught in the crossfire as easily.
During the Sarachoo feast, a Crimp spy, merely a Youngling, had landed outside of the village and witnessed the celebration. Have they forgotten about the Feast? Have they lost track of time? Its small stature made it effortless to stay out of sight. No matter, they are fattening themselves up for tonight – in the end. The Youngling slithered his frail looking body into the forest and soon found his way out of the canopy and into the sky, heading back to Farroon Marock to report what he had seen.
It only took an hour to get back home; Younglings were extraordinarily fast and nimble. Of course, they had to be to survive the adults. And so, the small Crimp sneakily crept up the side of Marroon Farock until he reached his Elder.“The Feast shall fill our tummies well, Lord Cyfro,” the Youngling landed next to his alpha, who was perched on his usual spot atop the mountain.
Cyfro didn't respond, though his stomach gave a pleased reaction of rumbling. The Youngling was only as large as his Lord's foot, which he perched next to, gripping the rocks like a desperate predator. A Crimp's scales were slick and hard to detect by the naked eye. This effect allowed the black texture to glisten in the sun – not beautifully – menacingly. It was dangerous for a Crimp to sit out during the day, however; their bodies would overheat even from the small amount of sunlight that forced its way through the clouds. Cyfro didn't mind, though – he was far more interested in finally experiencing the Feast. The Youngling leaped and spread his winged arms to glide away, but was snatched by a thin black vine. The last thing the Youngling saw was the widely opened mouth of Cyfro and his pointed white teeth glistening with saliva as his pink tongue danced with hunger.
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As agreed, Freero left the village behind after saying his goodbyes; it was filled with hopeful smiles, but hope isn't always one to trust. The village planned to have a Sarachoo escape before the Feast even started, ensuring that they would have the best choice among them to fulfill the Savior role. Only Freero and Bremeg knew who the real Savior would be, and the real reason the young Prince was leaving them behind.
Freero spread his wings and lunged toward a clearing, soon taking off as a powerful gust of wind blew against him and lifted his equine body. He didn't say where he was going, and he didn't tell Honesah why he was leaving – Freero didn't want to meet up with her until she had gotten much older. Doing this would allow her to teach herself her own strength, which would make her far stronger than someone always training her. There was a plan in mind, however, that Freero decided on his own. He was determined to protect not only his sister, but the village as well.
About thirty miles north-west of the Sarachoo Village, Freero made it across the edge of the Deschanc Ka Blatru and soon reached a small human town known as Boros, which was another thirty miles from the forest; it was mostly vegetated by a few scattered trees from the forest and dry grass that burdened the light, morning snow on their shoulders. The green Sarachoo landed in a small gathering of trees nearby and began his Forming back into Human, which only took a minute. Afterward, Freero soon strolled out from behind the foliage, his robe and clothing pouch belted to to his hips, then walked into the village just down the hill.
He searched the village, asking random people about different blacksmiths in the area and getting their opinions to find the best one. After about fifteen minutes of questioning, he decided on the smith he wanted - a large man, standing nearly two feet taller than Freero, which equaled to about six feet, and a complexion of a gruff type. His hands and face were tainted black by all of the smoke and coal he worked with. The man didn't have a beard, but a mustache that reached around his top lip and curled inward. His hair was brown, curly, and reached below his ears; more than likely, he was unable to grow it any longer than that.
"What business do you have, boy?" The smith greeted Freero, though it wasn't as welcoming as the Sarachoo had hoped.
Even with the unwelcoming tone, Freero answered, "I have come here searching for a sword, one that can slice through any opponent."
A faint smile curled on the man's lips, "Well, then, my boy, you've come to the right place! My name is Jebec. My wife, Senica, is somewhere inside the house. Now tell me," he looked around his workshop. “What style of sword are you looking for? Heavyweight, lightweight, short, long; I can make you any sword you'd like."
Freero thought carefully; he would need a sturdy sword - one that would be able to handle a great amount of resistance against his swings, and plenty of length to keep away from the blood. "Heavyweight, longsword. And," he paused in a pleased set of thoughts, "add a slight curve to the blade. Maybe a vine design on the hilt?"
"Ah, it sounds like a fine sword,” Jebec said that about every request he would get. “I'll have it done in two days."
"Ten hours."
"T-ten hours?" Jebec was appalled. It took quite a while to craft a sword, and when other orders were to be made, it would take even longer.
"I need it by tonight. It is quite a serious matter." Freero opened his waist pouched and pulled out a small clothed bag, tossing it to the blacksmith. It was green and gold trimmed, and jingled with the sense of fullness. "This is all I have. I will not need money where I am going."
Jebec pulled the drawstring, untying its lacy form, and poured the coins into his other hand, some of the gold forms dripping out of his hand and onto the ground. "All of this gold? Where did you...?" He stopped himself, studying Freero's forehead and ears, his blue and yellow striped hair, the kind orange eyes, then realized just who he was dealing with. "A Sarachoo."
"You have heard about us," Freero smirked.
"Only a Sarachoo could have so much gold and toss it around so freely." The man put the gold in his hand back into the bag - he would pick up the ones on the ground later. "Come," he ushered his client toward the wooden door behind him, which lead to the inside of his home. "We'll finish this discussion inside."
At this point, Freero was able to meet Senica; she wasn't thin or fit, but she wasn't obese either - a healthy figure, with a pretty face framed by straight, light brown hair that reached to her shoulders. Tea was served; a warm, soothing tea, which worked perfectly against the winter chill. Freero studied the living room area: three chairs, a large bookshelf packed with books, and a few wall decorations here and there. The couple's home was simple and welcoming.
"I know a lot about your kind,” Jebec began the more serious discussion, “I do a lot of hearing from customers about creatures they've fought and come across. Only a handful have ever seen strays of the Sarachoo."
Freero nodded, "We seldom leave the village."
"Is it finally that time again," Senica questioned, "the time of the Feast?"
Again, he nodded, "So you have learned this much."
"Why didn't you have your own blacksmith forge a sword for you?" Jebec eyed Freero curiously. Surely the Sarachoo forged metals.
"They do not know I am fighting. It was – a last minute decision." Freero looked down to the wooden floor; it was worn and old, but sturdy and soft to the eyes – a deep brown color, polished when the house was first built. Freero took his seat across from Jebec and nodded as he was handed his tea. The sweet smell filled his thawing nostrils. “So you will have it ready within ten hours?”
“Eight hours.”
“But you were stressing over the ten hours just outside.”
“I only did that because I'm already overwhelmed with orders as it is.” The blacksmith paused, sipped his tea, and continued, “However, considering the circumstances – and the pay – I'll make your request first on my list – decorations and all.”
Hope filled Freero's heart just as the tea filled his body with warmth. He would be able to fight against the Crimps with his people and ensure his sister's safety and – more importantly - everyone's safety. “I will make your name valuable under the Sarachoo village.”
Jebec laughed and looked at his wife, “Do you hear that, Senica? The docile Sarachoo will honor our names!”
“What are you implying,” Freero arched a brow.
“Nothing, my boy,” he chuckled. “I take it quite seriously, but your people aren't known to fight often – you tend to remain in hiding.”
“That does not mean we do not practice with them,” replied Freero. “In fact, we do have those of us brave enough to leave the village to gather intelligence. It is how we keep up with the world.”
Senica asked, “Why do only the brave Sarachoo go out?”
Freero's eyes drifted down to his cup of lazily steaming tea as he answered, “Sarachoo that leave the village are free game to the Crimps, even though it is not time for the Feast. I was told that it became an understanding between the first Sarachoo and Crimps some many centuries before, so that our people would not be completely wiped out on accident.”
“Your people are practically caged animals!” Senica exclaimed, her tea almost spilling as she quickly brought the cup down from her lips. “Can't you kill the Crimps off?”
“My ancestors have tried, I assure you.” A sigh escaped Freero's chest. “We plan to try again. My father is sure that we will win this time, but I fear the worst.”
An inspiring love-child between a smirk and a devilish grin molded onto the blacksmith's face, “My blades may change your fears.”
They continued to talk and entertain each other with questions about their lifestyles and backgrounds, their foods and family, passing the hour by rather quickly until it was time to get to work.
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Jebec pounded on the long steel pole that was glowing red with near melting heat. He flattened and shaped the edges, heating and cooling as many times as the process required. The sword reached about four feet long from base to tip. While he formed the blade, Senica was making the decorative attachments that she would soon put on the hilt. She heated and cooled the hilt as needed, etching leaves, vines, and berries into the steel and attaching the hand-guard, which took the form of further vines that curled and twisted in the fashion that wouldn't harm the handler. There was so much detail and effort put into the sword, one would swear they had spent days creating it. Jebec had finally sharpened the blade to a spectacular glimmer and matched a sheath out of the large selection he had made during his free time.
“It is beautiful,” Freero balanced the sword in his hands and gazed at its wonder. “Truly a sword made by absolute masters.” He thanked the couple graciously, eager to return to his village. There, he planned wait near the edge of the forest until the Crimps appeared, and strike with his people.
"What will you name it?" Senica looked over her creation as Freero held it.
A smirk creased on the Sarachoo's lips, "I believe Skemtch is a proper name."
Repent. How creative of him.
Jebec and Senica wondered, as they watched Freero walk into the dwindling evening crowds of people, just how random - or significant - their encounter with the young man actually was.
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While Freero proudly strolled toward the outskirts of Boros, he mentally planned out his attack for once he reached the Sarachoo Village. His mind was so eager to help his brethren that he didn't notice the dark figure following him from the shadows. It kept its distance until Freero passed the last building, then dashed away.
Once Freero was sure he couldn't be seen behind the trees and brush of the forest's edge, he checked his sword's belt and loosened it enough for his Natural Form's size. He was just about to Form when he heard something behind him. Sniffing? Snorting? What was that? He turned back toward Boros and saw a small man dressed in leather sitting on the back of a large hound – larger than a himself! Freero knew of this breed; the Sarachoo scouts had mentioned them numerous times. These hounds were known as Mornar – legs and body like a stallion, head of a bloodhound, feet with claws thick enough to be hooves, and a tail with wiry hair. They had an incredible sense of smell, and just as impressive endurance; Mornar were the perfect hunting companions. Freero knew that he was in for chase that wouldn't be pleasant.
Could he risk leading the hunter to his village? If the hunter survived after the Feast, what would happen to the Savior if the Sarachoo failed to defeat the Crimps? Freero couldn't take that risk. Even if his people were to win, a hunter that knew of their village would be a terrible threat.
He had to lead the hunter away. So Freero did. He walked casually beyond the treeline, listening as his pursuer’s footsteps kept a steady distance between them. After a quick glance around, Freero sprouted his wings and flew off toward the northeast. By going in this direction, he wouldn't lose too much time after dealing with the hunter. He soared high above the trees, and the heavy beats of some four-legged creature pounded close behind, sounding the drums of battle.
An arrow whizzed by, clipping Freero's wing, but only scattering a few feathers. It was followed by a low howl of what Freero could only recognize as the Mornar, and he knew that the only way out of this chase was to defeat its master. Freero clutched the hilt of his new sword, anticipating what was to come.
It was time to wear in the blade.
Freero dove into the thick forest, now at the northern edge. With the cover of the brush, the hunter would have a difficult time hitting a moving target.
He retracted his wings back into his form so that they wouldn't get damaged and refrain him from flying away if the situation became dire. The beating feet now accompanied by heavy panting as they grew louder. Freero waited, making sure of which angle his foes were coming from.
Slowly, Freero drew his sword, pressing his back to a wide tree in hopes of hiding – or, at least, taking cover – when he caught sight of the Mornar's large body bounding toward him from a distance. The stretching of a worn bow string echoed to Freero's ears.
He waited.
The hunter waited.
A gust of wind blew across the forest canopy, rustling the few chilled and snow-dusted leaves that still clung to the branches. Some of the trees creaked at the strain against the wind's force, rhythmically chattering like teeth. Freero took this as a sign to make his move. He rounded the tree and struck downward with Skemtch, to which he was awarded with a yelp. Freero didn't bother to see what damage he had done, and he dodged around the Mornar's huge wake before the hunter could get a good shot.
Another arrow pierced the ground where Freero had made his move.
For several minutes, the Mornar and Freero strutted a deadly dance while the hunter tried to take aim with is bow. The snow gradually melted with the heat of their battle. It had soon turned various shades of pink and red due to the splashes of blood, mostly from the Mornar. Freero had suffered painful scrapes and bruises from the large beast's paw swipes, and he suspected that he had a couple of broken ribs.
The dance was interrupted when the hunter fired an arrow into Freero's shoulder.
To have his life end at the hands of anything other than a Crimp or Death, himself, was an embarrassment to Freero. This hunter needed to end.
Freero quickly backed away as his foe drew back another arrow, and hid himself behind a tree. With a deep inhale, he grabbed the arrow in his shoulder and snapped it in half as close to the surface of his skin as possible. There was still a tiny bit of the shaft protruding from him, but at least it was much less in the way than the rest he had broken off. He tossed the arrow's tail aside as he studied his would. Thick Sarachoo blood trickled down the side of his chest, soaking into his once white robe. With all of the focus he had put into baring the pain, Freero never heard the hunter dismount his Mornar.
The only hint of where the hunter may be was the faint crunching of the snow, but the steps sounded too large for a Human. Freero took a quick peek from behind the tree, expecting to see the hunter still sitting on his mount, then ducked back just in time to have an arrow fly by where his head had been. It disappeared into the bushes nearby as silent as an owl's pass. The crunching of the snow grew louder from both sides of Freero, and he could hear the difference between them. The set on his right sounded heavier than the set on his left. Most likely, the hunter was coming around from the left side, to which Freero watched carefully, silently hoping that there wasn't a third member of the hunting party. He decided to take his chances with the Mornar, and readied his sword with his good arm.
The softened panting was close enough that Freero dashed in its direction, seeing the Mornar without its master and taking slow, steady steps before pausing at the Sarachoo's sudden action. He pulled back the sword to his side, then thrust with all of his momentum and might into the Mornar's chest.
Freero held fast to his sword as the beast struggled and writhed, trying to get the foreign object out of itself. A constricted whimpering forced its way out of the Mornar's drooping leathery lips. Freero suspected that the blade had wedged itself into some bone, and he tried to pull it out. The Mornar soon collapsed in a heap, and Freero was able to pull his sword free, letting the blood drain into the disturbed snow.
“I'm sorry,” Freero muttered, then took cover behind another tree. His heart ached with regret, wishing he didn't need to take down such an amazing creature; however, he needed to find the hunter, and wondered how many more arrows that Human had on him.
“You fierce devil!” The hunter must have spotted his murdered pet. “You'll be worth more than enough of a new one, though.” From the sound of his voice, Freero guessed that the hunter was near his previous hiding tree.
Maybe if he was fast enough, Freero could catch the hunter without an arrow drawn. This idea seemed better than hiding the whole time, getting little-to-nothing accomplished. He made up his mind, readying Skemtch for a final strike, and decided to take the risk. If he died here, at least he put up quite a fight, regardless that it was a mere Human.
A heavy sigh to calm his nerves; a shifting of his stance to get the most out of his next move. Freero waited for the first crunch of his opponent's footsteps. There was no creaking from a stretching bow string. Instead, there was a bit of shuffling, then a carefully placed step into the snow. Freero took this moment to side-step out from his cover, facing to where the hunter now stood with his short-sword drawn. Ready. Waiting.
Freero charged at the hunter, his shoulder pulsing in pain with each step.
The hunter waited until Freero was close enough, then dodged away from the Sarachoo's strike. Their swords rang in the cold air with every impact, then they locked their blades together, stepping within arm's reach, pressing forward with all their might to make the other give ground. Freero soon overpowered the hunter, sliding his blade down and slashing his foe's bicep. Both fighters stepped back, collecting themselves for another attack. Freero tried again, aiming to strike his sword in the hunter side, but the hunter skillfully dodged.
They continued on, slashing and stabbing at the other, only managing to scathe, rather than mortally wound. Their new dance was beautiful as one in a winter ballroom, yet fierce as an icy battlefield. Their constant shuffling and powerful strikes kicked up flakes of snow all around them.
The thought of trying to convince the hunter to go their separate ways crossed Freero's mind. He didn't want to kill the hunter, but if it was to protect the secret whereabouts of his village, then so be it. Still, he wanted to try. “Hunter,” he spoke his first words to the man as they backed away from each other again, “allow me to leave without being followed, and I will make it worth you while.”
“Hmph!” The hunter swung his blade across the air, still eager to get his kill. “A Sarachoo is worth more than your petty flowers.” He was convinced that the Sarachoo race was a tree-hugging sort, never using furs or leather if the kill was on their own accord. What could the Sarachoo possibly have that would be worth more than their corpse in a market?
“Then I no longer feel guilty for your undoing,” Freero tossed his sword to the mixture of dirt and snow below him, backing away a few steps as he untied his robe and stripped in front of the hunter. The Sarachoo tugged at his robe to slide it from under his waist pouch, which he then stuffed the garment in, and unbuckled the sword sheath to let it fall into the snow at his feet. He smirked at the man's twisted face, hinting at confusion and disgust. Freero began to Form, hands and feet melding to hooves; body and face elongating and thickening; skin sprouting fur as pure as the snow that had yet to be tainted; his crystal twisting and curling into a great length on his forehead. The Sarachoo reared up, spreading his wings, and soon lowered his head to charge at the hunter.
The Human prepared himself to hold his ground, and swung his sword in time to push Freero's horn off to the side as it only just punctured his leather jacket, ripping it up. Freero didn't bother pushing against the sword, and instead continued turning his body to have a wing slam into the hunter and knock him down. He made a full circle, stomping his hooves in case the hunter's limbs might be under him, but the hunter tumbled around in the snow, avoiding and prolonging his inevitable fate.
As Freero faced the hunter to attack again, he found the man raising his sword to protect himself, but the hunter was outnumbered. Freero jabbed his horn, stomped his hooves, and thrust his wings at the hunter, never giving him a chance to make an effective move. The hunter tried, oh so desperately, to roll away, but the Sarachoo continued to stay close, and soon knocked the sword out of his foe's hands.
This was it. The hunter had met his match. He saw the hoof close in on his face, and felt the sting of his nose breaking, but he was lucky enough to die before he could feel his skull crush into the forest flooring, mixing with the snow and dirt and all that he would later become a part of. Under the might of a Sarachoo's hoof, the Human skull was a weak as a boiled egg.
Freero stepped back, gazing at what he had done, partially in fear, but mostly in triumph. He bowed his great head and took a moment to give respects to the hunter, “Forgive me.” Though he had told the hunter that he would not feel guilty, his upbringing nagged at him mentally, scolding him for taking a life that was worthy of living. Freero wondered if this were true. Who was to judge one's worthiness to live? Where was the line that separated predator and prey? Would the Sarachoo race remain as the prey, always fearing that it is wrong to defend oneself from feeding others? Then, perhaps, was it wrong to fight against the-
No. No, what the Crimps do to the Sarachoo is beyond predator and prey. This was genocide, repeating itself time after time.
Never mind that. Freero needed to return to his village.
The least he could do was make the hunter look dignified, rather than some mauled corpse, before he left. So, he straightened out the Human's limbs, having him lie in an invisible coffin, and rested the hunter's sword on his chest, each hand covering the hilt. Freero tried not to look at the now disfigured head, but he couldn't help stealing a glance. The sight made his stomach churn, so he turned away with a snort. He then Formed back to his alternate Human body, leaving his wings available, and slipped his robe back over his chilled body. As he picked up his sword, Freero took one last look at the hunter, guilt still filling his eyes, and noticed the snow that slowly melted from the warmth that would eventually escape the corpse, yet the snow fought to remain frozen, fighting to overcome what was trying to destroy it; and for a moment, Freero's mind had a fleeting thought that perhaps even after death, we are all still at war with the world.
With a shake of his head to clear his thoughts, Freero reminded himself of his original task. He would not allow himself to be a coward and hide while the rest of his village fought to survive. With a running start, and a steady flapping of his wings, Freero broke through the forest canopy and soared the rest of the way back to his village.
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To pass the time, the Sarachoo continued in their leisurely activities, trying not to think about the terror that would soon follow by midnight.
Honesah and Allo sat by the frozen lake in their Natural Forms, its icy surface already starting to heal itself from melting during the daylight. They didn't talk much, unsure of how to be happy when almost sure death was on its way.
“Maybe we should escape, too,” Allo suggested. “We could get out of here together and find Freero.”
“But father said that I must stay here and witness the Feast,” Honesah said. “He did not tell me why, but that it will be useful to me in the future.” She tapped the thin ice that crept up the bank with her fore hoof, “I am suppose to escape at some point, but I have to be here to know that it truly did happen.”
With a nod and a smile, Allo accepted this and answered, “Then we will escape during the Feast – both of us. And then we will find Freero and help him become the Savior.”
Honesah stretched out her wings and shook her gold and sapphire mane. “Then let us make a promise to stay alive, stay together forever, and always be there to protect each other.”
Without a word, Allo bent his equine head and shoved his horn deep into the snow and earth; he tilted his head, bending the curled yellow horn until it snapped into two about half its length down. “I want you to keep this with you, in case we are ever separated.” Allo lifted the horn piece with his mouth and offered it to Honesah; she took it without question and nuzzled open the flap to her waist pouch, placing the horn piece deep down to make sure it wouldn't fall out.
“I will make a necklace out of it as soon as I can,” Honesah smiled. She didn't know why Allo wanted her to keep it, but she adored and trusted him fully. As much as Honesah would like to admit it, she couldn't – but she more than adored Allo; she loved him. They were so young, yet she couldn't help herself from feeling this way. Sometimes, Honesah wondered if Allo had similar feelings – or were they just mere friends to him? Time would tell, however, because age tended to lie on the subject of romance.
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That night, the Sarachoo village laid silently in wait; they crouched behind every trap-trigger, the Cotlies hid in an underground chamber – all except Allo and Honesah. The two were hiding with Bremeg and Crooton; Allo's mother had agreed to let Allo stay with Honesah after being told their escape plan. It would be sad to die alone and not be with her son in the most frightening of times, but she knew that she would see him again once the Savior restored the village.
Almost every Marcroo had a trigger; those who didn't were assigned as scouts to signal for when they saw the Crimps on their way. Clouds were quickly building in the sky, blocking out the bright and twinkling stars as they darkened to the color of the night. There was no rain, no lightning, only wind – strong gusts of wind. Bremeg looked up to the clouds and searched for the glow of the moon, barely able to see it – but he did. “Midnight,” he said.
At that moment, a piercing cry broke the rushing winds' woos and dramatically ended with a low, rumbling, unnatural tone. With this battle cry, the Sarachoo's ears began to bleed from the high-pitched scream, then shook from the vibrato of the rumbling tone. They could feel their insides quiver with fear. Bremeg waited for the scouts' signals – torched cloth balls slung in the air. He knew it wasn't yet time – not until the third cry. Silence returned to their ears, accompanied by the winds.
It wasn't long until the second cry resounded, causing the Sarachoo to fall to their knees and emotions break from the tremendous pain ringing in their heads. Tears trickled down each cheek of the Sarachoo people, the sounds driving them mad. Whether this was also due to fear, or some sort of involuntary effect, they did not know. Silence returned and remained for a good five minutes.
Many pairs of red eyes formed in the night's blanket, glowing with menacing hunger. The scouts lit their torch balls and slung them high into the air from their tree perches. As the fireballs rose into the air, the Crimps increased their flight speed and snatched the torches one by one, swallowing the fires into their dark bodies. The third and last cry rang out, and immediately after, black fire of incredible heat burst from the lungs of the carnivorous Crimps. They landed, ready to begin the Feast, but realized that there hadn't been any screams at all – not even a tiny stir. Cyfro was far too large to sit in the village with everyone else, so he hovered about – his powerful wings adding to the strength of the wind. “Burn it all down,” he commanded. “If they aren't here when we're finished, search the forest!”
Another torch ball shot into the air; before the Crimps could react, they were skewered by many large spears that burst from the ground below them. Those with direct hits died immediately, but there were still Crimps who were unscathed. Out of sheer anger, the Crimps still alive began to breathe their dominating fire and whip their tails over the buildings, easily obliterating them, as they cried, “It's a trap! A trap!” Their destruction frightening the Sarachoo out of hiding – and so the Feast began.
By the mere glance of a Sarachoo, the Crimps were instinctively triggered to snap out and attempt to devour the pure mystical beings. With most of the Crimps killed off, the Sarachoo had a better chance to fight – which they did; Bremeg ordered his people to take up arms, or rather, horns. All Sarachoo were in Natural Form now, dashing and swooping under the Crimps to pierce their bellies as many times as it would take until the Black Dragons bled to death. There was only one problem – once a Crimp's blood is exposed to oxygen, it immediately turns into a powerful acid. The ground was boiling as it was being digested, forcing the Sarachoo to remain in flight. Crimps possessed the scales to be immune to the acid; their insides, however, were quite vulnerable if one were to get a Crimp to swallow its own blood or slow their bleeding enough to allow the oxygen to mix with it. A Crimp's blood is much thinner than water; to slow the speed of its bleeding is nearly impossible, no matter how small the injury may be.
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Within the chamber where the Cotlies were hidden, there was certain death. The young Sarachoo huddled against the furthest wall, watching a red liquid begin to drip from the ceiling door. Once the droplets impacted with the wooden flooring, it sizzled and spat, sinking further down. It only took a few seconds for that drip to turn into a thin stream, then a thick pour, and finally, the door gave way and swallowed the Cotlies before they could release their screams.
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Honesah and Allo were told to hide in the Keep. It was protected from destruction of any sorts after the first Savior founded the building. He had layered the Keep in his own feathers after it was built, and once the door is closed, the barrier is at full strength. For now, though, the door was cracked open; Honesah and Allo were watching the chaos ensue within the village. Their eyes wide with awe and fear, not sure if any time was a good time to escape. The ground several feet before them was sizzling with Crimp blood, some of it even burning like spilled lamp oil. The houses struggled to hold their shapes under the tearing jaws of the flames. The young Cotlies waited and waited, afraid that they would be seen eventually, but were too frightened to take their chances outside of the Keep.
Allo was the one to decide, and he nudged Honesah's shoulder with his muzzle, “We have to get out of here now. If we stay much longer, we'll be stuck here for days.” He had considered the amount of Crimp blood that was already spilled and would be spilled; it would take a while for it all to burn away, or even burn through the ground, and if that wasn't enough concern, then the heat of the fires would surely cook them alive. Allo could already feel the beads of sweat trickling down his flanks.
The Princess stepped back, unsure if they could make it. The Crimp heads were swiping so fast – they were like snakes feeding on field mice! One Crimp in sight swung his hind-quarters forward and whipped his tail at a Sarachoo; it cracked just as loudly as thunder, tearing the unlucky Sarachoo's torso to shreds. The Sarachoo was sent spiraling away and down into a gurgling pool of blood. “What if we are caught?” Honesah panicked, “What if we do not make it out? Oh, Allo! My legs will not move!”
“You still have my horn-tip, right?” Allo asked. Honesah nodded and looked back to her flank pouch. She held it in there since she was unable to make a necklace in time, and carefully wrapped it in her robes for protection. Allo smiled and said, “Remember that it will protect you – I will protect you.” He shoved open the old Keep door and quickly stepped out, coaxing Honesah to follow, which she did, her legs shaking with every step. Allo closed the door behind them, and they crept to the nearest building to stay in hiding.
One building and one Crimp carcass at a time, rounding clear of any blood pools, the Cotlies remained in the shadows as often as possible, making their way to the edge of the Village. It didn't matter which edge, just as long as they were away from the terror and destruction. Allo looked back to Honesah often, making sure that she was still close behind him. “Take deep breaths,” he would remind her. Though, he should speak for himself. Poor Allo was just as scared, but he knew it was his duty to ensure Honesah's escape, so he had to stay strong. Honesah expanded her lungs every time Allo reminded her, and let out shivering breaths. She constantly thought about Allo's horn-tip, trusting what power it may hold, though she wasn't completely sure if such power was real. Perhaps it was; perhaps the horn-tip was making them invisible to the Crimps, and that was why they were sneaking away so easily. There were a few close calls with being stepped on or singed, even a cracking Crimp tail exploded a house they had ran from; or perhaps it was just luck.
If it was luck, then it must have run out, because the easy part of their escape had just begun.
A massive Crimp foot crashed down onto the smoldering building that Honesah and Allo were currently hiding behind, startling them into flight. Allo urged Honesah to get moving, and they took off in their original direction.
“Come on, Honesah,” Allo called over his shoulder to his Princess, both of their wings flapping as strongly as possible. They dodged the oncoming Crimp tails and bursts of flames, barely escaping many. Sure the tips of their fur and feathers had browned from the licks of fire.
So close to the edge of the village – once they reached the tree line, they could disappear into the snow and vegetation. Allo made an easily avoidable mistake, however; he looked behind himself again, not hearing a response from Honesah – she was crying.
It was the last thing he would remember about her – about anything. The young Princess' glistening eyes full of tears that glowed a pale blue. The bursts of red and orange fire that engulfed what was once their home. The rumbles and screams of massive Dragons stomping around as the other Sarachoo tries to fight back.
Honesah, though, would remember the chomp and crunch of her dearly beloved, watching as his body was so easily devoured by the Crimp. Once it had swallowed, the Crimp sneered and eyed Honesah's frightened, saddened, and almost frozen body, “So they were right – Sarachoo are far sweeter than lambs!”
Her brain told her to escape, but her wings wouldn't do more than allow her to hover. Honesah's wide pink eyes poured out increasing amounts of her strange tears. As the Crimp reared its head back to strike, her senses returned, and Honesah managed to dodge the razor sharp teeth within mere inches. She dove down into the tree line, quickly blending into the thick, white snow. The Sarachoo Princess flew and flew as fast as she could, brushing against merciless branches from the many pine trees. She kept it up for what seemed like only seconds, Allo's death replaying over and over again; she flew until she managed to lose feeling in her torn and battered wings, almost flying straight into a tree. Honesah didn't realize that she had traveled for well over three hours. After finding a fair branch to rest on, Honesah changed to Human Form, barely able to allow the process to go through – hopefully, the Crimps wouldn't recognize her this way; and, she hoped, the pine would be a cover for her scent.
The pain of losing young love was even more excruciating than what her body was feeling. Honesah reached into her belted pouch and took out Allo's horn piece. She thought about putting on her robe, but her body was too exhausted; besides, her wings would keep her warm. So she huddled tightly against the tree trunk, wings surrounding the tired Honesah as she took the yellow horn piece from her waist pouch and held it in the palms of her shaking hands. Then we will escape during the Feast – both of us. Allo's cheerful suggestion echoed within her mind, bringing up the questions she could not yet understand.
Why would fate be so cruel to ruin their plan? Why did love hurt so much? Why should such an innocent romance be broken? She wrapped her frazzled wings around her body, lowering her forehead to touch her own crystal with Freero's gift. A dizzying feeling came over her, and the Cotly decided it would be acceptable for a short nap. She closed her emotionally swollen eyes. The last three things she remembered were the crunching of her body falling deep into the snow, the pain of something sharp sinking into the center of her chest, and a boy proclaiming, “That's not what I shot at.”
Chapter 2
Morning of the final day came faster than expected, waking each Sarachoo from its slumber. They gathered, in Human Form, within the middle of their village and waited for his majesty to confront them with tonight's plan of action.
A rush of silence overcame the gathering as Bremeg made his appearance in Human Form and stepped upon the stump he and the previous Kings had used over the centuries. He looked proud, ready, assured that his plan would work – but with a price. “Many of you will die,” Bremeg didn't want to sugar-coat the truth. “Many of you will be injured,” he began with the bad news to make sure their spirits would be raised in the end, “and only one of you will become the Savior.” The blue Marcroo looked over his people, seeing the worry in their faces, flooding their eyes. “For many a millennia, we have watched our species be eaten and brought to the verge of extinction. Fate has blessed us with the glory of the Savior.” Bremeg looked behind himself to smile at his wife – his Queen, his son – his heir, and his daughter. He turned back to continue his speech, lightening the mood, “But tonight, our lives will be saved by ourselves; it is time to allow the Savior to rest forever – to create a stable peace within our land. No more shall we die off to please a far more devilish species; no more shall we fear time; no more shall we cringe at every dark cloud. Tonight, we gain our right to live!” Bremeg hoisted a fist into the air, cuing the Sarachoo to cheer and throw their fists up as well. It was a sight to remember; a sight to make one's heart flutter with hope; a sight that deceived all.
By noon, the Sarachoo gathered for their own feast; they danced and cheered, drank water and ate Beglons, hay, carrots, and other forms of large insects that resembled grubs. Games were included – simple mathematical games. One in particular was a gambling game with wooden dice, sweets, and twigs. It was simple, yet fun: there were three dice – one with the four main math symbols, two with six sides for the numbers. When one would solve the equation, a subtraction or division would take away that many sweets from that player and gain that many twigs, with addition or multiplication, they would gain sweets and subtract twigs. Each player would start off with fifty pieces of sweets and fifty twigs. Once a player has only twigs, it was game over for that player.
Other games were played, of course. The Marcroo tended to have eating and running contests. By evening, things got serious – the Sarachoo practiced out timing to release the large wooden spear traps and familiarized themselves with the areas that the spears were buried; this way, they wouldn't be caught in the crossfire as easily.
During the Sarachoo feast, a Crimp spy, merely a Youngling, had landed outside of the village and witnessed the celebration. Have they forgotten about the Feast? Have they lost track of time? Its small stature made it effortless to stay out of sight. No matter, they are fattening themselves up for tonight – in the end. The Youngling slithered his frail looking body into the forest and soon found his way out of the canopy and into the sky, heading back to Farroon Marock to report what he had seen.
It only took an hour to get back home; Younglings were extraordinarily fast and nimble. Of course, they had to be to survive the adults. And so, the small Crimp sneakily crept up the side of Marroon Farock until he reached his Elder.“The Feast shall fill our tummies well, Lord Cyfro,” the Youngling landed next to his alpha, who was perched on his usual spot atop the mountain.
Cyfro didn't respond, though his stomach gave a pleased reaction of rumbling. The Youngling was only as large as his Lord's foot, which he perched next to, gripping the rocks like a desperate predator. A Crimp's scales were slick and hard to detect by the naked eye. This effect allowed the black texture to glisten in the sun – not beautifully – menacingly. It was dangerous for a Crimp to sit out during the day, however; their bodies would overheat even from the small amount of sunlight that forced its way through the clouds. Cyfro didn't mind, though – he was far more interested in finally experiencing the Feast. The Youngling leaped and spread his winged arms to glide away, but was snatched by a thin black vine. The last thing the Youngling saw was the widely opened mouth of Cyfro and his pointed white teeth glistening with saliva as his pink tongue danced with hunger.
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As agreed, Freero left the village behind after saying his goodbyes; it was filled with hopeful smiles, but hope isn't always one to trust. The village planned to have a Sarachoo escape before the Feast even started, ensuring that they would have the best choice among them to fulfill the Savior role. Only Freero and Bremeg knew who the real Savior would be, and the real reason the young Prince was leaving them behind.
Freero spread his wings and lunged toward a clearing, soon taking off as a powerful gust of wind blew against him and lifted his equine body. He didn't say where he was going, and he didn't tell Honesah why he was leaving – Freero didn't want to meet up with her until she had gotten much older. Doing this would allow her to teach herself her own strength, which would make her far stronger than someone always training her. There was a plan in mind, however, that Freero decided on his own. He was determined to protect not only his sister, but the village as well.
About thirty miles north-west of the Sarachoo Village, Freero made it across the edge of the Deschanc Ka Blatru and soon reached a small human town known as Boros, which was another thirty miles from the forest; it was mostly vegetated by a few scattered trees from the forest and dry grass that burdened the light, morning snow on their shoulders. The green Sarachoo landed in a small gathering of trees nearby and began his Forming back into Human, which only took a minute. Afterward, Freero soon strolled out from behind the foliage, his robe and clothing pouch belted to to his hips, then walked into the village just down the hill.
He searched the village, asking random people about different blacksmiths in the area and getting their opinions to find the best one. After about fifteen minutes of questioning, he decided on the smith he wanted - a large man, standing nearly two feet taller than Freero, which equaled to about six feet, and a complexion of a gruff type. His hands and face were tainted black by all of the smoke and coal he worked with. The man didn't have a beard, but a mustache that reached around his top lip and curled inward. His hair was brown, curly, and reached below his ears; more than likely, he was unable to grow it any longer than that.
"What business do you have, boy?" The smith greeted Freero, though it wasn't as welcoming as the Sarachoo had hoped.
Even with the unwelcoming tone, Freero answered, "I have come here searching for a sword, one that can slice through any opponent."
A faint smile curled on the man's lips, "Well, then, my boy, you've come to the right place! My name is Jebec. My wife, Senica, is somewhere inside the house. Now tell me," he looked around his workshop. “What style of sword are you looking for? Heavyweight, lightweight, short, long; I can make you any sword you'd like."
Freero thought carefully; he would need a sturdy sword - one that would be able to handle a great amount of resistance against his swings, and plenty of length to keep away from the blood. "Heavyweight, longsword. And," he paused in a pleased set of thoughts, "add a slight curve to the blade. Maybe a vine design on the hilt?"
"Ah, it sounds like a fine sword,” Jebec said that about every request he would get. “I'll have it done in two days."
"Ten hours."
"T-ten hours?" Jebec was appalled. It took quite a while to craft a sword, and when other orders were to be made, it would take even longer.
"I need it by tonight. It is quite a serious matter." Freero opened his waist pouched and pulled out a small clothed bag, tossing it to the blacksmith. It was green and gold trimmed, and jingled with the sense of fullness. "This is all I have. I will not need money where I am going."
Jebec pulled the drawstring, untying its lacy form, and poured the coins into his other hand, some of the gold forms dripping out of his hand and onto the ground. "All of this gold? Where did you...?" He stopped himself, studying Freero's forehead and ears, his blue and yellow striped hair, the kind orange eyes, then realized just who he was dealing with. "A Sarachoo."
"You have heard about us," Freero smirked.
"Only a Sarachoo could have so much gold and toss it around so freely." The man put the gold in his hand back into the bag - he would pick up the ones on the ground later. "Come," he ushered his client toward the wooden door behind him, which lead to the inside of his home. "We'll finish this discussion inside."
At this point, Freero was able to meet Senica; she wasn't thin or fit, but she wasn't obese either - a healthy figure, with a pretty face framed by straight, light brown hair that reached to her shoulders. Tea was served; a warm, soothing tea, which worked perfectly against the winter chill. Freero studied the living room area: three chairs, a large bookshelf packed with books, and a few wall decorations here and there. The couple's home was simple and welcoming.
"I know a lot about your kind,” Jebec began the more serious discussion, “I do a lot of hearing from customers about creatures they've fought and come across. Only a handful have ever seen strays of the Sarachoo."
Freero nodded, "We seldom leave the village."
"Is it finally that time again," Senica questioned, "the time of the Feast?"
Again, he nodded, "So you have learned this much."
"Why didn't you have your own blacksmith forge a sword for you?" Jebec eyed Freero curiously. Surely the Sarachoo forged metals.
"They do not know I am fighting. It was – a last minute decision." Freero looked down to the wooden floor; it was worn and old, but sturdy and soft to the eyes – a deep brown color, polished when the house was first built. Freero took his seat across from Jebec and nodded as he was handed his tea. The sweet smell filled his thawing nostrils. “So you will have it ready within ten hours?”
“Eight hours.”
“But you were stressing over the ten hours just outside.”
“I only did that because I'm already overwhelmed with orders as it is.” The blacksmith paused, sipped his tea, and continued, “However, considering the circumstances – and the pay – I'll make your request first on my list – decorations and all.”
Hope filled Freero's heart just as the tea filled his body with warmth. He would be able to fight against the Crimps with his people and ensure his sister's safety and – more importantly - everyone's safety. “I will make your name valuable under the Sarachoo village.”
Jebec laughed and looked at his wife, “Do you hear that, Senica? The docile Sarachoo will honor our names!”
“What are you implying,” Freero arched a brow.
“Nothing, my boy,” he chuckled. “I take it quite seriously, but your people aren't known to fight often – you tend to remain in hiding.”
“That does not mean we do not practice with them,” replied Freero. “In fact, we do have those of us brave enough to leave the village to gather intelligence. It is how we keep up with the world.”
Senica asked, “Why do only the brave Sarachoo go out?”
Freero's eyes drifted down to his cup of lazily steaming tea as he answered, “Sarachoo that leave the village are free game to the Crimps, even though it is not time for the Feast. I was told that it became an understanding between the first Sarachoo and Crimps some many centuries before, so that our people would not be completely wiped out on accident.”
“Your people are practically caged animals!” Senica exclaimed, her tea almost spilling as she quickly brought the cup down from her lips. “Can't you kill the Crimps off?”
“My ancestors have tried, I assure you.” A sigh escaped Freero's chest. “We plan to try again. My father is sure that we will win this time, but I fear the worst.”
An inspiring love-child between a smirk and a devilish grin molded onto the blacksmith's face, “My blades may change your fears.”
They continued to talk and entertain each other with questions about their lifestyles and backgrounds, their foods and family, passing the hour by rather quickly until it was time to get to work.
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Jebec pounded on the long steel pole that was glowing red with near melting heat. He flattened and shaped the edges, heating and cooling as many times as the process required. The sword reached about four feet long from base to tip. While he formed the blade, Senica was making the decorative attachments that she would soon put on the hilt. She heated and cooled the hilt as needed, etching leaves, vines, and berries into the steel and attaching the hand-guard, which took the form of further vines that curled and twisted in the fashion that wouldn't harm the handler. There was so much detail and effort put into the sword, one would swear they had spent days creating it. Jebec had finally sharpened the blade to a spectacular glimmer and matched a sheath out of the large selection he had made during his free time.
“It is beautiful,” Freero balanced the sword in his hands and gazed at its wonder. “Truly a sword made by absolute masters.” He thanked the couple graciously, eager to return to his village. There, he planned wait near the edge of the forest until the Crimps appeared, and strike with his people.
"What will you name it?" Senica looked over her creation as Freero held it.
A smirk creased on the Sarachoo's lips, "I believe Skemtch is a proper name."
Repent. How creative of him.
Jebec and Senica wondered, as they watched Freero walk into the dwindling evening crowds of people, just how random - or significant - their encounter with the young man actually was.
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While Freero proudly strolled toward the outskirts of Boros, he mentally planned out his attack for once he reached the Sarachoo Village. His mind was so eager to help his brethren that he didn't notice the dark figure following him from the shadows. It kept its distance until Freero passed the last building, then dashed away.
Once Freero was sure he couldn't be seen behind the trees and brush of the forest's edge, he checked his sword's belt and loosened it enough for his Natural Form's size. He was just about to Form when he heard something behind him. Sniffing? Snorting? What was that? He turned back toward Boros and saw a small man dressed in leather sitting on the back of a large hound – larger than a himself! Freero knew of this breed; the Sarachoo scouts had mentioned them numerous times. These hounds were known as Mornar – legs and body like a stallion, head of a bloodhound, feet with claws thick enough to be hooves, and a tail with wiry hair. They had an incredible sense of smell, and just as impressive endurance; Mornar were the perfect hunting companions. Freero knew that he was in for chase that wouldn't be pleasant.
Could he risk leading the hunter to his village? If the hunter survived after the Feast, what would happen to the Savior if the Sarachoo failed to defeat the Crimps? Freero couldn't take that risk. Even if his people were to win, a hunter that knew of their village would be a terrible threat.
He had to lead the hunter away. So Freero did. He walked casually beyond the treeline, listening as his pursuer’s footsteps kept a steady distance between them. After a quick glance around, Freero sprouted his wings and flew off toward the northeast. By going in this direction, he wouldn't lose too much time after dealing with the hunter. He soared high above the trees, and the heavy beats of some four-legged creature pounded close behind, sounding the drums of battle.
An arrow whizzed by, clipping Freero's wing, but only scattering a few feathers. It was followed by a low howl of what Freero could only recognize as the Mornar, and he knew that the only way out of this chase was to defeat its master. Freero clutched the hilt of his new sword, anticipating what was to come.
It was time to wear in the blade.
Freero dove into the thick forest, now at the northern edge. With the cover of the brush, the hunter would have a difficult time hitting a moving target.
He retracted his wings back into his form so that they wouldn't get damaged and refrain him from flying away if the situation became dire. The beating feet now accompanied by heavy panting as they grew louder. Freero waited, making sure of which angle his foes were coming from.
Slowly, Freero drew his sword, pressing his back to a wide tree in hopes of hiding – or, at least, taking cover – when he caught sight of the Mornar's large body bounding toward him from a distance. The stretching of a worn bow string echoed to Freero's ears.
He waited.
The hunter waited.
A gust of wind blew across the forest canopy, rustling the few chilled and snow-dusted leaves that still clung to the branches. Some of the trees creaked at the strain against the wind's force, rhythmically chattering like teeth. Freero took this as a sign to make his move. He rounded the tree and struck downward with Skemtch, to which he was awarded with a yelp. Freero didn't bother to see what damage he had done, and he dodged around the Mornar's huge wake before the hunter could get a good shot.
Another arrow pierced the ground where Freero had made his move.
For several minutes, the Mornar and Freero strutted a deadly dance while the hunter tried to take aim with is bow. The snow gradually melted with the heat of their battle. It had soon turned various shades of pink and red due to the splashes of blood, mostly from the Mornar. Freero had suffered painful scrapes and bruises from the large beast's paw swipes, and he suspected that he had a couple of broken ribs.
The dance was interrupted when the hunter fired an arrow into Freero's shoulder.
To have his life end at the hands of anything other than a Crimp or Death, himself, was an embarrassment to Freero. This hunter needed to end.
Freero quickly backed away as his foe drew back another arrow, and hid himself behind a tree. With a deep inhale, he grabbed the arrow in his shoulder and snapped it in half as close to the surface of his skin as possible. There was still a tiny bit of the shaft protruding from him, but at least it was much less in the way than the rest he had broken off. He tossed the arrow's tail aside as he studied his would. Thick Sarachoo blood trickled down the side of his chest, soaking into his once white robe. With all of the focus he had put into baring the pain, Freero never heard the hunter dismount his Mornar.
The only hint of where the hunter may be was the faint crunching of the snow, but the steps sounded too large for a Human. Freero took a quick peek from behind the tree, expecting to see the hunter still sitting on his mount, then ducked back just in time to have an arrow fly by where his head had been. It disappeared into the bushes nearby as silent as an owl's pass. The crunching of the snow grew louder from both sides of Freero, and he could hear the difference between them. The set on his right sounded heavier than the set on his left. Most likely, the hunter was coming around from the left side, to which Freero watched carefully, silently hoping that there wasn't a third member of the hunting party. He decided to take his chances with the Mornar, and readied his sword with his good arm.
The softened panting was close enough that Freero dashed in its direction, seeing the Mornar without its master and taking slow, steady steps before pausing at the Sarachoo's sudden action. He pulled back the sword to his side, then thrust with all of his momentum and might into the Mornar's chest.
Freero held fast to his sword as the beast struggled and writhed, trying to get the foreign object out of itself. A constricted whimpering forced its way out of the Mornar's drooping leathery lips. Freero suspected that the blade had wedged itself into some bone, and he tried to pull it out. The Mornar soon collapsed in a heap, and Freero was able to pull his sword free, letting the blood drain into the disturbed snow.
“I'm sorry,” Freero muttered, then took cover behind another tree. His heart ached with regret, wishing he didn't need to take down such an amazing creature; however, he needed to find the hunter, and wondered how many more arrows that Human had on him.
“You fierce devil!” The hunter must have spotted his murdered pet. “You'll be worth more than enough of a new one, though.” From the sound of his voice, Freero guessed that the hunter was near his previous hiding tree.
Maybe if he was fast enough, Freero could catch the hunter without an arrow drawn. This idea seemed better than hiding the whole time, getting little-to-nothing accomplished. He made up his mind, readying Skemtch for a final strike, and decided to take the risk. If he died here, at least he put up quite a fight, regardless that it was a mere Human.
A heavy sigh to calm his nerves; a shifting of his stance to get the most out of his next move. Freero waited for the first crunch of his opponent's footsteps. There was no creaking from a stretching bow string. Instead, there was a bit of shuffling, then a carefully placed step into the snow. Freero took this moment to side-step out from his cover, facing to where the hunter now stood with his short-sword drawn. Ready. Waiting.
Freero charged at the hunter, his shoulder pulsing in pain with each step.
The hunter waited until Freero was close enough, then dodged away from the Sarachoo's strike. Their swords rang in the cold air with every impact, then they locked their blades together, stepping within arm's reach, pressing forward with all their might to make the other give ground. Freero soon overpowered the hunter, sliding his blade down and slashing his foe's bicep. Both fighters stepped back, collecting themselves for another attack. Freero tried again, aiming to strike his sword in the hunter side, but the hunter skillfully dodged.
They continued on, slashing and stabbing at the other, only managing to scathe, rather than mortally wound. Their new dance was beautiful as one in a winter ballroom, yet fierce as an icy battlefield. Their constant shuffling and powerful strikes kicked up flakes of snow all around them.
The thought of trying to convince the hunter to go their separate ways crossed Freero's mind. He didn't want to kill the hunter, but if it was to protect the secret whereabouts of his village, then so be it. Still, he wanted to try. “Hunter,” he spoke his first words to the man as they backed away from each other again, “allow me to leave without being followed, and I will make it worth you while.”
“Hmph!” The hunter swung his blade across the air, still eager to get his kill. “A Sarachoo is worth more than your petty flowers.” He was convinced that the Sarachoo race was a tree-hugging sort, never using furs or leather if the kill was on their own accord. What could the Sarachoo possibly have that would be worth more than their corpse in a market?
“Then I no longer feel guilty for your undoing,” Freero tossed his sword to the mixture of dirt and snow below him, backing away a few steps as he untied his robe and stripped in front of the hunter. The Sarachoo tugged at his robe to slide it from under his waist pouch, which he then stuffed the garment in, and unbuckled the sword sheath to let it fall into the snow at his feet. He smirked at the man's twisted face, hinting at confusion and disgust. Freero began to Form, hands and feet melding to hooves; body and face elongating and thickening; skin sprouting fur as pure as the snow that had yet to be tainted; his crystal twisting and curling into a great length on his forehead. The Sarachoo reared up, spreading his wings, and soon lowered his head to charge at the hunter.
The Human prepared himself to hold his ground, and swung his sword in time to push Freero's horn off to the side as it only just punctured his leather jacket, ripping it up. Freero didn't bother pushing against the sword, and instead continued turning his body to have a wing slam into the hunter and knock him down. He made a full circle, stomping his hooves in case the hunter's limbs might be under him, but the hunter tumbled around in the snow, avoiding and prolonging his inevitable fate.
As Freero faced the hunter to attack again, he found the man raising his sword to protect himself, but the hunter was outnumbered. Freero jabbed his horn, stomped his hooves, and thrust his wings at the hunter, never giving him a chance to make an effective move. The hunter tried, oh so desperately, to roll away, but the Sarachoo continued to stay close, and soon knocked the sword out of his foe's hands.
This was it. The hunter had met his match. He saw the hoof close in on his face, and felt the sting of his nose breaking, but he was lucky enough to die before he could feel his skull crush into the forest flooring, mixing with the snow and dirt and all that he would later become a part of. Under the might of a Sarachoo's hoof, the Human skull was a weak as a boiled egg.
Freero stepped back, gazing at what he had done, partially in fear, but mostly in triumph. He bowed his great head and took a moment to give respects to the hunter, “Forgive me.” Though he had told the hunter that he would not feel guilty, his upbringing nagged at him mentally, scolding him for taking a life that was worthy of living. Freero wondered if this were true. Who was to judge one's worthiness to live? Where was the line that separated predator and prey? Would the Sarachoo race remain as the prey, always fearing that it is wrong to defend oneself from feeding others? Then, perhaps, was it wrong to fight against the-
No. No, what the Crimps do to the Sarachoo is beyond predator and prey. This was genocide, repeating itself time after time.
Never mind that. Freero needed to return to his village.
The least he could do was make the hunter look dignified, rather than some mauled corpse, before he left. So, he straightened out the Human's limbs, having him lie in an invisible coffin, and rested the hunter's sword on his chest, each hand covering the hilt. Freero tried not to look at the now disfigured head, but he couldn't help stealing a glance. The sight made his stomach churn, so he turned away with a snort. He then Formed back to his alternate Human body, leaving his wings available, and slipped his robe back over his chilled body. As he picked up his sword, Freero took one last look at the hunter, guilt still filling his eyes, and noticed the snow that slowly melted from the warmth that would eventually escape the corpse, yet the snow fought to remain frozen, fighting to overcome what was trying to destroy it; and for a moment, Freero's mind had a fleeting thought that perhaps even after death, we are all still at war with the world.
With a shake of his head to clear his thoughts, Freero reminded himself of his original task. He would not allow himself to be a coward and hide while the rest of his village fought to survive. With a running start, and a steady flapping of his wings, Freero broke through the forest canopy and soared the rest of the way back to his village.
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To pass the time, the Sarachoo continued in their leisurely activities, trying not to think about the terror that would soon follow by midnight.
Honesah and Allo sat by the frozen lake in their Natural Forms, its icy surface already starting to heal itself from melting during the daylight. They didn't talk much, unsure of how to be happy when almost sure death was on its way.
“Maybe we should escape, too,” Allo suggested. “We could get out of here together and find Freero.”
“But father said that I must stay here and witness the Feast,” Honesah said. “He did not tell me why, but that it will be useful to me in the future.” She tapped the thin ice that crept up the bank with her fore hoof, “I am suppose to escape at some point, but I have to be here to know that it truly did happen.”
With a nod and a smile, Allo accepted this and answered, “Then we will escape during the Feast – both of us. And then we will find Freero and help him become the Savior.”
Honesah stretched out her wings and shook her gold and sapphire mane. “Then let us make a promise to stay alive, stay together forever, and always be there to protect each other.”
Without a word, Allo bent his equine head and shoved his horn deep into the snow and earth; he tilted his head, bending the curled yellow horn until it snapped into two about half its length down. “I want you to keep this with you, in case we are ever separated.” Allo lifted the horn piece with his mouth and offered it to Honesah; she took it without question and nuzzled open the flap to her waist pouch, placing the horn piece deep down to make sure it wouldn't fall out.
“I will make a necklace out of it as soon as I can,” Honesah smiled. She didn't know why Allo wanted her to keep it, but she adored and trusted him fully. As much as Honesah would like to admit it, she couldn't – but she more than adored Allo; she loved him. They were so young, yet she couldn't help herself from feeling this way. Sometimes, Honesah wondered if Allo had similar feelings – or were they just mere friends to him? Time would tell, however, because age tended to lie on the subject of romance.
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That night, the Sarachoo village laid silently in wait; they crouched behind every trap-trigger, the Cotlies hid in an underground chamber – all except Allo and Honesah. The two were hiding with Bremeg and Crooton; Allo's mother had agreed to let Allo stay with Honesah after being told their escape plan. It would be sad to die alone and not be with her son in the most frightening of times, but she knew that she would see him again once the Savior restored the village.
Almost every Marcroo had a trigger; those who didn't were assigned as scouts to signal for when they saw the Crimps on their way. Clouds were quickly building in the sky, blocking out the bright and twinkling stars as they darkened to the color of the night. There was no rain, no lightning, only wind – strong gusts of wind. Bremeg looked up to the clouds and searched for the glow of the moon, barely able to see it – but he did. “Midnight,” he said.
At that moment, a piercing cry broke the rushing winds' woos and dramatically ended with a low, rumbling, unnatural tone. With this battle cry, the Sarachoo's ears began to bleed from the high-pitched scream, then shook from the vibrato of the rumbling tone. They could feel their insides quiver with fear. Bremeg waited for the scouts' signals – torched cloth balls slung in the air. He knew it wasn't yet time – not until the third cry. Silence returned to their ears, accompanied by the winds.
It wasn't long until the second cry resounded, causing the Sarachoo to fall to their knees and emotions break from the tremendous pain ringing in their heads. Tears trickled down each cheek of the Sarachoo people, the sounds driving them mad. Whether this was also due to fear, or some sort of involuntary effect, they did not know. Silence returned and remained for a good five minutes.
Many pairs of red eyes formed in the night's blanket, glowing with menacing hunger. The scouts lit their torch balls and slung them high into the air from their tree perches. As the fireballs rose into the air, the Crimps increased their flight speed and snatched the torches one by one, swallowing the fires into their dark bodies. The third and last cry rang out, and immediately after, black fire of incredible heat burst from the lungs of the carnivorous Crimps. They landed, ready to begin the Feast, but realized that there hadn't been any screams at all – not even a tiny stir. Cyfro was far too large to sit in the village with everyone else, so he hovered about – his powerful wings adding to the strength of the wind. “Burn it all down,” he commanded. “If they aren't here when we're finished, search the forest!”
Another torch ball shot into the air; before the Crimps could react, they were skewered by many large spears that burst from the ground below them. Those with direct hits died immediately, but there were still Crimps who were unscathed. Out of sheer anger, the Crimps still alive began to breathe their dominating fire and whip their tails over the buildings, easily obliterating them, as they cried, “It's a trap! A trap!” Their destruction frightening the Sarachoo out of hiding – and so the Feast began.
By the mere glance of a Sarachoo, the Crimps were instinctively triggered to snap out and attempt to devour the pure mystical beings. With most of the Crimps killed off, the Sarachoo had a better chance to fight – which they did; Bremeg ordered his people to take up arms, or rather, horns. All Sarachoo were in Natural Form now, dashing and swooping under the Crimps to pierce their bellies as many times as it would take until the Black Dragons bled to death. There was only one problem – once a Crimp's blood is exposed to oxygen, it immediately turns into a powerful acid. The ground was boiling as it was being digested, forcing the Sarachoo to remain in flight. Crimps possessed the scales to be immune to the acid; their insides, however, were quite vulnerable if one were to get a Crimp to swallow its own blood or slow their bleeding enough to allow the oxygen to mix with it. A Crimp's blood is much thinner than water; to slow the speed of its bleeding is nearly impossible, no matter how small the injury may be.
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Within the chamber where the Cotlies were hidden, there was certain death. The young Sarachoo huddled against the furthest wall, watching a red liquid begin to drip from the ceiling door. Once the droplets impacted with the wooden flooring, it sizzled and spat, sinking further down. It only took a few seconds for that drip to turn into a thin stream, then a thick pour, and finally, the door gave way and swallowed the Cotlies before they could release their screams.
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Honesah and Allo were told to hide in the Keep. It was protected from destruction of any sorts after the first Savior founded the building. He had layered the Keep in his own feathers after it was built, and once the door is closed, the barrier is at full strength. For now, though, the door was cracked open; Honesah and Allo were watching the chaos ensue within the village. Their eyes wide with awe and fear, not sure if any time was a good time to escape. The ground several feet before them was sizzling with Crimp blood, some of it even burning like spilled lamp oil. The houses struggled to hold their shapes under the tearing jaws of the flames. The young Cotlies waited and waited, afraid that they would be seen eventually, but were too frightened to take their chances outside of the Keep.
Allo was the one to decide, and he nudged Honesah's shoulder with his muzzle, “We have to get out of here now. If we stay much longer, we'll be stuck here for days.” He had considered the amount of Crimp blood that was already spilled and would be spilled; it would take a while for it all to burn away, or even burn through the ground, and if that wasn't enough concern, then the heat of the fires would surely cook them alive. Allo could already feel the beads of sweat trickling down his flanks.
The Princess stepped back, unsure if they could make it. The Crimp heads were swiping so fast – they were like snakes feeding on field mice! One Crimp in sight swung his hind-quarters forward and whipped his tail at a Sarachoo; it cracked just as loudly as thunder, tearing the unlucky Sarachoo's torso to shreds. The Sarachoo was sent spiraling away and down into a gurgling pool of blood. “What if we are caught?” Honesah panicked, “What if we do not make it out? Oh, Allo! My legs will not move!”
“You still have my horn-tip, right?” Allo asked. Honesah nodded and looked back to her flank pouch. She held it in there since she was unable to make a necklace in time, and carefully wrapped it in her robes for protection. Allo smiled and said, “Remember that it will protect you – I will protect you.” He shoved open the old Keep door and quickly stepped out, coaxing Honesah to follow, which she did, her legs shaking with every step. Allo closed the door behind them, and they crept to the nearest building to stay in hiding.
One building and one Crimp carcass at a time, rounding clear of any blood pools, the Cotlies remained in the shadows as often as possible, making their way to the edge of the Village. It didn't matter which edge, just as long as they were away from the terror and destruction. Allo looked back to Honesah often, making sure that she was still close behind him. “Take deep breaths,” he would remind her. Though, he should speak for himself. Poor Allo was just as scared, but he knew it was his duty to ensure Honesah's escape, so he had to stay strong. Honesah expanded her lungs every time Allo reminded her, and let out shivering breaths. She constantly thought about Allo's horn-tip, trusting what power it may hold, though she wasn't completely sure if such power was real. Perhaps it was; perhaps the horn-tip was making them invisible to the Crimps, and that was why they were sneaking away so easily. There were a few close calls with being stepped on or singed, even a cracking Crimp tail exploded a house they had ran from; or perhaps it was just luck.
If it was luck, then it must have run out, because the easy part of their escape had just begun.
A massive Crimp foot crashed down onto the smoldering building that Honesah and Allo were currently hiding behind, startling them into flight. Allo urged Honesah to get moving, and they took off in their original direction.
“Come on, Honesah,” Allo called over his shoulder to his Princess, both of their wings flapping as strongly as possible. They dodged the oncoming Crimp tails and bursts of flames, barely escaping many. Sure the tips of their fur and feathers had browned from the licks of fire.
So close to the edge of the village – once they reached the tree line, they could disappear into the snow and vegetation. Allo made an easily avoidable mistake, however; he looked behind himself again, not hearing a response from Honesah – she was crying.
It was the last thing he would remember about her – about anything. The young Princess' glistening eyes full of tears that glowed a pale blue. The bursts of red and orange fire that engulfed what was once their home. The rumbles and screams of massive Dragons stomping around as the other Sarachoo tries to fight back.
Honesah, though, would remember the chomp and crunch of her dearly beloved, watching as his body was so easily devoured by the Crimp. Once it had swallowed, the Crimp sneered and eyed Honesah's frightened, saddened, and almost frozen body, “So they were right – Sarachoo are far sweeter than lambs!”
Her brain told her to escape, but her wings wouldn't do more than allow her to hover. Honesah's wide pink eyes poured out increasing amounts of her strange tears. As the Crimp reared its head back to strike, her senses returned, and Honesah managed to dodge the razor sharp teeth within mere inches. She dove down into the tree line, quickly blending into the thick, white snow. The Sarachoo Princess flew and flew as fast as she could, brushing against merciless branches from the many pine trees. She kept it up for what seemed like only seconds, Allo's death replaying over and over again; she flew until she managed to lose feeling in her torn and battered wings, almost flying straight into a tree. Honesah didn't realize that she had traveled for well over three hours. After finding a fair branch to rest on, Honesah changed to Human Form, barely able to allow the process to go through – hopefully, the Crimps wouldn't recognize her this way; and, she hoped, the pine would be a cover for her scent.
The pain of losing young love was even more excruciating than what her body was feeling. Honesah reached into her belted pouch and took out Allo's horn piece. She thought about putting on her robe, but her body was too exhausted; besides, her wings would keep her warm. So she huddled tightly against the tree trunk, wings surrounding the tired Honesah as she took the yellow horn piece from her waist pouch and held it in the palms of her shaking hands. Then we will escape during the Feast – both of us. Allo's cheerful suggestion echoed within her mind, bringing up the questions she could not yet understand.
Why would fate be so cruel to ruin their plan? Why did love hurt so much? Why should such an innocent romance be broken? She wrapped her frazzled wings around her body, lowering her forehead to touch her own crystal with Freero's gift. A dizzying feeling came over her, and the Cotly decided it would be acceptable for a short nap. She closed her emotionally swollen eyes. The last three things she remembered were the crunching of her body falling deep into the snow, the pain of something sharp sinking into the center of her chest, and a boy proclaiming, “That's not what I shot at.”
