Hunter
He's always had an affinity for weakness.
Of the three senses available to him, touch is his favorite. The warmth of a bengalaas's fur, the soothing embrace of a kwah-kai that he has saved from an untimely end. There are many animals on their world and he embraces them all. Even in the midst of those infinitely stronger and more powerful than him, though not necessarily wiser. They study the artifacts of the ihan-rii, yet of what use is this knowledge if the Shelak only keep it to themselves?
He grows out of it eventually-a "phase" as his mother calls it, stroking his head with all four fingers, going on about how he will either be a great warrior or great scholar-it changes depending on her mood and surrounding events seemingly. For the most part, he prefers the second option, even if it is like the former-a road to nowhere. What kind of world do the Firstborn live in where these are the only two occupations available, not to mention the second being non-existent in other tribes?
Watching the body of an Ara taken as part of an offering to an omharra, he knows the answer-a grim one.
He remembers his first kill, his claws tearing into the flesh of one of the tribe's many enemies. His hands dripping in blue blood, he hides his disgust and shame, masking his thoughts from his fellow Shelak in the same manner as the fallen Furinax before him. He's weak, he knows this, but at least he is able to hide it from his fellow protoss. Strangely enough, it is the deception that brings him more shame than the churning feeling in his chest.
Taking the body of the fallen back to camp, he feels afraid. His elders tell him that fear can be both his deadliest weapon and his greatest weakness, depending on whether he's able to sharpen it. Like a shikma really, its steel cutting through the enemy if wielded with an expert hand or cutting the hand of those who wields it if used clumsily.
He doesn't really care either way. With any luck, he won't ever have to use such a weapon.
It's apparently a great honor to slay an Akilae, the strongest clan the Shelak know of. It's also a great necessity-while their hatred does not match that of the Furinax or Ara, every living Akilae is a potential enemy, one whose martial prowess could present a danger even greater than blind hate. So when they set upon an Akilae settlement in a pre-emptive strike, it is not only no questions asked, but no prisoners taken either.
Apparently that includes children.
In this bloody age, most protoss fall into a narrow range in regards to age. Few will live out the end of their lives and with their population ever falling due to intercine conflict, it is to be expected that there are few children to replace the fallen members of the previous generation. And right now, standing over the body of one such child, he feels disgusted.
He also feels a kindred spirit. This girl is not like the Akilae, any more than he is like the martial side of the Shelak. She is what the elders would broadly define as weak, unsuited for the harsh measures that each tribe, Shelak or otherwise, must take to survive. Her thoughts are uncontrolled and fill his own, ranging from fear to outright terror. But why? He wasn't the one who tore out an eye, was he? He didn't do this…
Then again, he's part of a greater whole. In a sense, he's as guilty as everyone else. And that raises the question-how do you bring to justice a single protoss when their entire race has become one of murderers? And even if you could, what, if any incentive, would that give for the Firstborn to abandon their destructive ways?
Dropping his shikma in the mud as the Akilae is cut off from the Golden Orb of Day's light, embracing the darkness that is death, Savassan does not know the answer to that question.