He had been his clan's most prolific hunter. Skulls of every shape and size adorned the walls, and even ceiling and floor, of his trophy room. He had sired an impressive ninety-nine sucklings in his lifetime, and perhaps his greatest regret was not having made it to his hundredth. He had been clan leader, overseeing the growth and deaths of many fine young warriors, and some very stupid ones. He had even been chosen mate of the high eldress on four occasions. He had been adjudicator, judge and executioner of the bad bloods that tainted the lines of the yautja, who had committed such atrocities that a weaker heart would have never been able to sleep again, yet ten of these skulls adorned his walls, including three of the dishonorable Hish-qu-Ten clan, who twist the rules of the hunt as much as they twist their own bodies in genetic experimentation.
His name was Vor'mekta!
He was now one-thousand five-hundred eighty-nine seasons old. Eight-hundred ninety-four by the cycle of the human world. His body was aged; he had put off his Final Hunt for far too long. Now it was almost too late.
Or so he thought.
He had come to this planet, which his people called 'C'hot.' It was inhospitable, even by yautja standards. Perpetually cold, always dark, and the creatures here were so ferocious, any yautja would be crazy to hunt one. It was a world so repulsive, that not a single clan had tried to lay claim to it. That was what made it perfect, he thought, where better to have his Final Hunt than where no other weaker-hearted yautja would dare step foot? Surely, one of these monsters would be more than a match for his aged body, and grant him a good death.
He had been here for months. Every creature he had fought fell to his blades, leaving him with little more than scratches to show for it. He was disappointed. This planet, bearers spoke of it to sucklings to keep them in line, never sure if their dam would be serious in making good the threat of dropping them there. And it couldn't kill him.
Disgraceful. He thought. Shameful, he should have travelled instead to the world of humans; they would have been more of a challenge than these long-furred and soft-bellied beasts, even if they were at least ten times the size of any human male. The only way he could make it easier for these beasts was to face them naked, and he did not feel like exposing his rod to the elements.
The biting wind blew right through him. A single cloak he wore over his frosted armor. It whipped and tore in the flurry. It was all black in his vision, but he knew where he was going. Heavy sandals dug deep into the snow, the metal claws allowing for some traction though he sank to his knees. He had to be careful. Some creatures burrowed through the snow, and made the surface weak. While he would not mind dropping in and having a fight with one of the moles, he was on a mission.
He had seen a light. It was impossible to miss when he was primarily blind. It went above him, roared with fire, and screamed against the biting cold. It flew off into the distance, before vanishing from his sight. He had seen and been in enough crashed ships to know what one looked like as it fell out of the sky. Maybe it was his old age that made him curious enough to stand from his spot, abandoning the cleaning job on his latest trophy. His glaive he used as a staff, not to aid him in walking but to test for pitfalls and avoid them. The time did not register. Hell, the only way he had been able to tell a day on this planet, was that it was infinitesimally warmer during a certain time, before becoming cold again. But this ship could not be far enough for a day to pass.
His steps stopped suddenly when he saw the light. It was bright against the blackness, far away, burning. He stabbed his glaive into the snow and contemplated, his upper mandibles clicking against the bottom tusks slowly as he tilted his head. The lens of his mask brought the image of the burning light closer, filtered the light out so that he could see details. It was a mangled mess; he wouldn't have been able to identify what species it belonged to even if he was right next to it. He toggled through the different visions, trying to locate any bodies in the fire or in the ship. He stopped when one vision gave an alarm, and indicated for him to look lower.
He glanced down, and the triangular mark circled around a small dot of heat, leaving behind a small trail as it all but swam through the snow. He rattled again, stepping forward and down the hill towards the living creature. He stopped some distance away and monitored it, watching it advance until it collapsed at his feet.
It was a human, female, and it looked upon him without fear. He curiously wondered what he appeared to her as she stared at his mask. The amusing thought subsided when he noticed that heat was spilling from her into the snow. He toggled a new vision, and saw that she was injured. A piece of metal, probably from the ship, was lodged through the lower part of her body, just under her ribs. Another vision allowed him to look inside, and saw that the metal had pierced and severed several organs.
It was a surprise the female had made it this far from the ship. Human females were smaller and weaker than their males, which was the opposite in yautja, yet he had seen human males surrender life for less grievous wounds. But then he noticed. In her arms, in the vision, there was a curled bundle of another set of bones and organs, much smaller than her own. He toggled to a new vision, and saw only a dark, thick heavy cloth.
The female made a noise and he looked at her face again. She was begging. While he didn't understand her language, he knew the facial expression. The odd furry brows bent upwards on the small crest, the strange fleshy lips that hid away human teeth turned downwards, and the eyes, so much like his own, narrowed. A hot tear fell from those eyes as she made the begging sound again, and she lifted her arms up to him.
He rattled and looked at the bundle, scanning it again and looking at the small heart beating within. It was a strong heart, and it beat fiercely with the will to live. A tiny human suckling lay within, there was no doubt. He looked from the bundle to the female, who begged again. Her body was shutting down on itself, she would die soon, but her arms stayed strong and steady holding her child to him.
He was silent in contemplation, staring at her as she stared unafraid of him. He then reached forward, his massive hand extended outwards and stopping beneath the bundle. It felt like nothing in his hand as hers slipped away, and he retracted it immediately to the added protection of his cloak, and the warmth of his heated mesh. Securing the bundle under his arm, he turned his attention to the female, who had collapsed in the snow. She barely breathed, short quick breaths, her heart tried frantically to beat and circulate blood that the body didn't have. She was suffering.
He ended it.
Once aboard his ship he shut the door against the wind and the howling was instantly silenced. He walked slowly to the room where his medicine was and set the bundle down. Wrinkled hands undid the wrapping, and revealed the child inside. It was soundly asleep. A bad habit. It was a young suckling, but it was no newborn. The flesh was smooth and plump, the belly full and distended. The strange human cheeks were round and flushed.
His claws gently moved around the suckling as he evaluated it, watching as it found its own small fist in its sleep and began to suck on it. So it had not yet been weaned. That was most unfortunate for it. Vor'mekta was no female with full breast. He had never reared young in his life, but he had enough mates that maybe he could if he wanted.
He used his claw to pry the small hand out of the suckling's mouth, and the small fingers instead curled tightly around his single digit. Despite himself, he was astonished at the suckling's strength. As it smacked its lips and took a deep breath, the yautja elder began to plan.
First things first was to not kill the suckling, setting the controls of his ship to simulate the human world's atmosphere, and lower the temperature to where it wouldn't be unbearable for him to live, but also wouldn't be unbearable for the suckling. The second thing was to remove the human cloth tied around the suckling's groin and discard it forever.
The moment the cloth was removed, a stream shot up at the yautja's mask and he quickly covered the suckling again and rattled in displeasure.
A male. Perfect. It was going to be a long season
He had chosen to raise the suckling. Naturally, the young human had at first been frightened of Vor'mekta, its wail loud and shrill enough pierce the skin of a kainde amedha, but it eventually quieted, getting used to the sight of the yautja as his caretaker. He did not suckle him, though he had originally made plans to gather milk from the nursing female beasts of this world, but decided as a test of strength, he would not. If the suckling was strong, he would survive, if he wasn't, then so be it.
Regardless of this, the suckling did survive. He had come to Vor'mekta already with limited mobility, able to turn himself over and crawl on four legs to where he wanted to be. Training the young male to defecate where it was appropriate was a chore, unlike with sucklings of his own race, and it wasn't until the suckling was walking on two legs that he finally figured out that there was an appropriate area in the ship to make his stream.
Naturally, the young male had begun to learn to speak. The strange human mouth was not made to properly pronounce the words of the yautja language, lacking the mandibles and tusks to make the appropriate clicking noises, but somehow he managed, figuring how to click his teeth to replicate the noises, with absolutely no tutelage from Vor'mekta.
Intelligence, adaptability, it was what made humans worthy prey in the eyes of the yautja. They capability to plan and strategize around the cleverly laid plans of even the most cunning warrior was a legendary trait that the humans alone possessed. While not as quick and deadly as a kainde amedha, nor as powerful or enduring as the yautja, they made up for their short-comings with tools and weapons, technology that evolved much faster than the yautja had, to the point that they sat just a tier below in weaponry below the yautja themselves. Given another hundred cycles, maybe they would be equal in that regard.
But for now, this suckling would have to make due with an old yautja's weapons. The moment the male was able to hold a combistick, his training began. Vor'mekta, of course, modified an old ba of his own to fit the small male's size. Naturally, his first instructions were sloppy, merely parroted movements to the ones that Vor'mekta showed him, but they were made with such an eager glee that was infective, and excited the elder yautja every time the male swung his combistick and looked to him for approval.
Over time, movements became more measured; force was actually applied to a strike. By the time the male was only up to Vor'mekta's thigh, he was fighting as well as any unblooded yautja twice his size. He had slimmed down almost instantly. All the roundness was gone and left in its wake the small muscled version of an adult of his species. He of course wore the traditional loincloth and kilt of a male yautja, and his soft hair had been meticulously braided by his caretaker, a process which had once been painful, but now was nothing compared to the pain he had to endure while training.
Vor'mekta was hard on him. A wrong movement made meant his feet would be swiped out from under him, and the staff of the elder yautja's glaive smacked hard against his head. He had cried the first few times this had occurred and had sought physical comfort from the yautja, who never gave it, and was in fact confused by the gesture. But now the young male would only ever stand back up, wait for the world to stop spinning, and try again.
Vor'mekta drilled into his head again and again that a single wrong move meant death, failure to adapt to a strike from an opponent meant death, miscalculation meant death, mindless actions meant death, stupidity meant death.
By the time that the elder yautja felt the male was old enough to go on some practice hunts with him outside, he was already decorated with a few scars from his training.
With his thin flesh protected from the cold by a modified mesh suit, Vor'mekta took the male out into the tundra. He needed no mask. The air here was breathable by human standards. He was, however, fitted with what pieces of armor that wouldn't restrict the male's movements, which required only a small adjusting of straps.
The cold instantly threatened to freeze the plates together, but constant movement and the heat from the suit kept them from sticking. In the snow, Vor'mekta put into practice what he taught to the young male. Not just skill, but The Path, he showed him what it was to stalk, the thrill of hunting, to only select the strongest of a species for the kill, and the weakest for food. He demonstrated the tactics of the yautja, mimicking the sounds of creatures to lure them near. The young male would watch as the old yautja moved, graceful calculated movements as precise as when he was only thirty cycles old. Past gnashing jaws and the swipe of claws, his blades only demonstrated the weak points of the beast, only grazing its throat, its belly, its eyes for the young male to see, before finally putting the beast down.
The human watched with intense awe as Vor'mekta demonstrated how to take and clean a trophy, and walked with the hunter to the room. The young male stared at all the skulls within, walking in without permission, and reaching out to reverently stroke the smooth polished surfaces of the skulls he could reach. Normally, he would have lost his hand for such an act, but instead, Vor'mekta walked behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder and swiped his hand across the oldest skull there, the long tubular ridged head, eyeless face and jaws open wide, revealing the smaller jaws within.
Kainde amedha, the serpents, the prey used as the final trial to an unblooded to earn the right of being a blooded warrior, to be permitted to traverse the universe and hunt the greatest game, and to bring back trophies to earn the favor of expecting females.
Vor'mekta chuckled when his young apprentice asked about females, and told him that it was a thing he would worry about later, knowing within himself that the young male would never be able to go on a chiva to become blooded, and he would never know the touch of a female of any species, let alone his own. He was alive to serve one purpose only.
The young male went often on hunts with Vor'mekta, to sit idly by and witness the techniques with which to kill a multitude of beasts on this world. He seemed to grasp the knowledge easily. But one day, the male had returned from going out into the snow alone, a move that Vor'mekta did not follow. Thoughtless actions meant death. But the young male instead returned, carrying in his arms a young furry thing that squealed and cried, despite the young male trying to soothe it.
Vor'mekta was confused by his actions until he asked his caretaker if he could keep it. Vor'mekta immediately refused to allow this. The practice of keeping animals was not an accepted method of The Path, and was used only by the dishonorable, by the Hish and the Killers. But before he could order the young male to return the creature, a bellow rang out across the tundra. Through the flurry a hulking shape barreled towards them. Vor'mekta was up in the air in an instant, wrist blades extended as the mother of the suckling beast materialized out of the snow. Blade failed to meet flesh through fur, but he succeeded in cutting away an opening for a killing strike. Claws raked down his back and spilled his blood into the snow. He stood quickly from where he was dropped and brandished his blades again, ducking under another attack and cutting the long toes clean off when she tried again.
As she roared in pain, Vor'mekta grabbed onto her fur, tangling his toes in for support and lifted his blades, digging them deep into the exposed flesh just behind the skull. The monster fell to the snow, breathing her last. Vor'mekta leapt from her shoulder and landed before the petrified young male. The elder stalked past him, without even looking, to go in and treat his wounds. He ordered the young male to kill the creature he clung to.
When the human protested, Vor'mekta turned sharply and growled. He would not tolerate insubordination. He knocked the creature from the male's arms to the ground, and stepped on its tail that it could not escape. He harshly explained to the human that the suckling beast was now doomed to die. Without a mother to protect it, the other, larger beasts would easily tear it to shreds, or it would die of hunger, or the cold would freeze it solid. It was doomed, and it would be more of a mercy to kill it.
The human male obviously wanted to protest, and Vor'mekta could see what argument he may have. The unblooded human would have suffered the same fate as this creature he so desperately wanted to now save, if Vor'mekta himself had not taken him from his mother, out from the cold. The old yautja took a moment to ponder, and question himself about how this situation was different from the one nearly one cycle ago. His philosophical musings were put to a rest, when the young male kicked the head of the young beast hard enough to snap its neck.
His face was flushed, and he whimpered and his eyes were leaking hot tears, he refused to look up at Vor'mekta, but what was done was done, and the elder returned to the task of cleaning his wounds.
It wasn't long after that the training for the young male became even more difficult, for now, the young male had his caretaker for an opponent. Even elderly as he was, Vor'mekta was more than a match for even the adult of a human male, let alone one only one cycle old. Amusing as the thought of how quickly humans aged, given that a cycle-old yautja would barely be learning to stalk while this young male was fighting with the prowess of an eleven-season old unblooded warrior, he knew it was because the humans lived such a short life. An eleven cycle old human by the homeworld's cycle would be ancient among its people, feeble, weak and useless.
This unblooded fought strong with such a small body, even young he was picking up the techniques and movements of his opponent faster than a yautja would have. And though victory always fell to the old caretaker, it wasn't long before he was sporting scratches and bruises given to him by his apprentice. The human male was limber, and agile, and while a yautja in his prime could boast that any of his species would be faster, stronger, more enduring and more agile than any human could ever be, Vor'mekta was old, his body didn't move like it used to, and he was only going to get older. For whatever reason, Cetanu was not keen for his company, and all he could do was continue on and try to impress.
The old yautja eventually fitted the unblooded with a pair of his very own wrist blades. While he had trained in the weapons for a long time, he was finally big enough to be able to wear a pair of Vor'mekta's old ones. It was amazing how quickly the human had grown. While a gradual process in its own way, he swore he could stare at the human and watch him grow by the nok. In just one-fifth of a cycle, the unblooded human went from being able to stare at Vor'mekta's stomach, to looking straight at his shoulder.
It was truly amazing how similar humans were to yautja. The muscles were placed differently, and yet had similar shape, the legs, the arms, even down to the amount of fingers and toes was all the same. If it weren't for the lack of mandibles, that ugly protrusion in the middle of his face, short smooth crest and that gross pink fleshy thing inside of his mouth, reminiscent of a kainde amedha's inner mouth, the unblooded would have made a handsome, albeit very short, yautja.
His braided hair reached down to his waist, and he had fitted himself with some of the broken ornaments that Vor'mekta would discard; fixed them up with his crafty clawless fingers and fit them into his own tresses. He would train on his own, with no prompting from his mentor, and could instantly change modes when Vor'mekta would begin fighting him while cloaked. He was getting very good, and the old yautja was begrudgingly proud.
The unblooded had his own collection of skulls, placed in a corner that Vor'mekta had cleared for his use only. They were good trophies, honorable trophies, trophies that any unblooded would be proud to have, and any sire would be proud to see. It was well past the time that a yautja would have gone on his chiva and become blooded, and it almost saddened him to see such a talented and virile male go to waste.
Nine seasons had passed. The unblooded human was an adult now by his species standards. There was always more to learn, of course, no one could ever know everything. But these were things that the human would have to learn on his own, to experience rather than to be lectured and shown. Vor'mekta had laid the path before him, and had led him along its beginning, but now it was his to walk alone, until Cetanu beckoned him into u'sl-kwe.
Vor'mekta could not grant the unblooded warrior a chiva to earn his right to call himself a sain'ja. But there was something he could do. And one day, on a particularly cold day in the tundra, he barked at the unblooded to prepare for a hunt. The human dressed swiftly, excitement tensing all his muscles and wrinkling his eyes. He was fitted and armed, and stood strong before his caretaker. Vor'mekta evaluated him, and gave a click of approval before turning and leading him outside. The old yautja was also armed and armored, but also wore his ceremonial cape, which the wind caught instantly and thrashed about. He also carried his mask under his arm, rather than wearing it.
The yautja turned his back to the wind and walked forward. The unblooded could tell quickly that this was not a normal hunt. Vor'mekta's gait was wrong, it was too casual. It stepped deliberately in the snow, and was clearly heard. The yautja wondered for a moment what could possibly be going through the human's head, rattling at amusing thoughts.
The yautja reached the spot that felt right, and turned to face the human, cape clasped in one hand to restrain it. He rattled and squared his shoulders. The human flinched and glanced around, looking for what he was facing. Vor'mekta growled, moving his arm so that the mask was extended towards the human. He then bent slowly and deliberately down and placed the mask in the snow. He stood slowly, and reached for his glaive on his back.
Vor'mekta could see understanding cross the human's face, and then, a second after that, the horror if realization. This was not another training session, this was not a lesson, it was not a test. The unblooded human was going to fight for his life. One of them was going to be left in the snow.
Vor'mekta roared at the human, who had not yet drawn a single weapon. The old yautja spread his arms and bent his knees in challenge, mandibles flaring wide. On his face and beneath his mesh, the scars of countless hunts and battles marred his skin, attesting to his prowess, boasting of his skill. The unblooded human would have to fight hard to earn his right to live.
Vor'mekta did not wait just because the human had not yet drawn his weapon. He leapt forward, smacking the human hard with the shaft of his staff and roared again. A weapon was in the human's hand in an instant, a glaive. The human did not allow for a second strike, ducking and weaving away, forcing the yautja to turn in a circle and block the human's counter strike.
He clicked in praise, but did not hesitate to come at him again. The two exchanged passes, blades grazing against skin, spilling two colors of blood into the snow. Again and again strike and counterstrike were made, ducking, weaving and spinning like a dance. In the darkness between the two bodies burning bright, Cetanu watched and applauded, waiting to see which warrior she would claim as hers.
Vor'mekta felt the blade of the human's glaive dig deep into his thigh after putting it too far out in preparation for a seep. The yautja was unfazed, but jumped back a distance to recover, only to have his leg sink deep into the snow. He cursed at himself, such a stupid mistake. He was slipping into the burrow of one of those digging creatures. But then the back of his armor was grabbed, and he was slid across the snow.
Surprise crossed his features as he found himself on his back, staring across the small distance at the human who turned once more to face him. He could have made a killing strike, but didn't, it was the best opportunity he had the whole fight, why hadn't he taken it? Was he showing him mercy? Was he showing that he would refuse to kill the old yautja?
No, the human was steeling himself for the next round, as the elder rose to his feet. Vor'mekta rattled and growled, old eyes looking at the human, seeing his determined expression, and a warmth filled him as he understood. His apprentice would not kill him for a simple mistake; he would grant him a good death, a death while on his feet, while he still had fight left in him, while his heart still beat strong. He trilled and roared to the sky, fists clenched tightly. This was what he had been waiting for his entire life.
He could not find his glaive in the snow, so extended his wrist blades and charged at the human, feinting to the right and earning the taste of blood on his hand. The human yelled out in anger and pivoted around, smacking the side of the yautja's crest. The elder turned his blades for a backwards swing, cutting open the muscle on his apprentice's stomach as he dodged away. The human's own wrist blades sprang out, though he still gripped the glaive.
He parried attacks from the yautja's wrist blades, then grunted as the yautja grabbed the shaft of the glaive, and easily wrenched it out if the human's hands, tossing it into the storm. When he turned to face him again he could not see the human. It was all blackness and biting cold. He looked frantically for heat, turning to keep his back safe. He cautiously stepped back, trying to listen but unable to hear anything but the screaming wind.
Another step back, looking to his right, another step and turning towards his left. His fingers spread and clenched again as he rattled. The snow erupted behind him, and pain seared up his back. He roared and whipped around, seeing his blood bright and hot on the dual blades of the human's weapon. They had gone deep in his back, and already he was feeling numb. Still he roared and charged; the ringing of metal dominated the wind as blade met blade again and again. But he was slowing, he could tell, his movements became sluggish, breathing was difficult. He fought on, pushing his opponent back, swing after swing.
Metal pierced his chest. Cold searing blades pierced his heart. He grunted. His mandibles slowly closed. The human, out of breath, pulled the blades out of his mentor. The old yautja fell to his knees, contemplating for a moment how it happened, and realized that it was the rhythm that was his downfall. The precisely timed attacks allowed for the human to predict his movement, and move around it for the kill.
He laughed, upper mandibles flexing up and down. His head tilted back until the sheer weight of the crest helped gravity to drag him down. He coughed up blood, but continued to laugh. A sudden bright heat interrupted the darkness above him. The human kneeled beside him, confusion on his face, mixed with guilt.
Vor'mekta rattled, lifting his arm and touching his claw to his gauntlet. He pressed only two buttons, and the gauntlet released his arm. He slid it off and passed it to the human. When he took it in his hands, the old yautja grabbed his head tightly, and with his claw, carved his clan's symbol above his left eye. His strength spent, his arms dropped down into the snow. He instructed his now blooded apprentice to give himself a name. His ship, his weapons, and his mask now belonged to the blooded warrior, but the trophies were Vor'mekta's.
The human male looked as if he would weep, but the elder yautja forbade it. His death would be honored as a proper warrior. He showed the human how. And as the soft warm fingers of the human stroked down the elder yautja's crest, the black warrior took the elder into nuo'ethy, finally.
One by one, his trophy skulls were placed around his body. The pile was so large, that the warrior could not be seen. And with a bolt of blue fire, his body was ignited. He would not be food for the beasts here, the beasts that had failed to kill him. The blooded warrior watched his mentor burn and bowed his head, holding his mask. Once the fire died, and the wind blew apart the charcoal and the ash, the human male turned away respectfully, and placed the mask, modified to fit him, over his face. Through the biting wind and the cold, he made his way back to his mentor's ship, his ship. He had only a few trophies to his name, and only a few scars to tell of his battles, but that would change.
His name was Neijin-thei-de, Good Death, and he would traverse the universe as a blooded warrior, and see if there was anything worthy of granting him one.